


under the eyes of the moon

by heartsighed



Category: VIXX
Genre: (none of the main characters), Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Fire, Infidelity, M/M, Slow Burn, antiquated concept of virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 80,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsighed/pseuds/heartsighed
Summary: They say that all stories are just mirrors of one another and if you look closely, you will find that there was only one story all along. But each story must have a beginning, and all stories eventually end.Simply told, this one is about a boy who steals peaches and courts a prince and grows up to wage a war against the darkness. He learns several truths along the way: first, dragons are cruel beasts. Second, there is no such thing as a secret in a palace. Third, magicalwayscomes in threes.





	1. The Broken Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually started writing this about six months ago?? holy crap. coincidentally a lot of the imagery overlapped with vixx's new comeback. i might borrow the sets from the mv, but this is not a shangri la au and i'm drawing from a lot of cultures, not just korean.
> 
> anyway, here is my unnecessarily long fairytale-style fantasy au.

There are stories as old as the earth itself. There are stories even older. They say that all stories have a bit of embellishment and that all legends hold a grain of truth.

They tell a story about the birth of dragons, demons, magic, and men. They tell a story about a baby in a garden who grows up to steal peaches, court a prince, and fight a war. They tell a story about an old king, a five-hundred-year-old fire, and a river that holds no water.

But really, all stories are just mirrors of one another and if you look closely, you will find that there was only one story all along.

 

\--

 

_Long before the beginning of history, rivers of magic ran like water through the land. When the dragons and demons came, they sated their thirst in its deep torrents and commanded the earth itself with the power they took from her veins. They feasted freely on the blood and flesh of men, taking pleasure in tasting the deaths of lesser beings._

_For eons, mortals lived in fear of magic beasts, until a single king dared to wage a war against the demons. He earned the love of a dragon through his valor and cunning wit and forged an alliance between dragons and men that would ultimately drive the demons out of the earth._

_When the war ended, the dragons left the mortal lands and took with them the demons. In place of the once great presence their magic held over the land, they blessed one man with the power of the dragons themselves, dubbing him the one who ruled as three: the guardian, the mage, and the king._

_Finally, they left behind a gift—one sacred law to rule all laws, one that not even the earth itself could contest. When they passed over, the path to the Otherland close behind them, sealed with a single gate of fire, and then only the deep streams of flowing magic remained._

 

\--

 

Before there is anything else, there is night.

Awareness filters back in layers, treading with ghostly steps.

There is the sound of the trees, creaking quietly even when there is no wind to carry the smell of salt and tar from the sea. There is the rumble of Wonsik’s snores, muffled through the thick wood that separates their rooms. There is the rustle of his cot, shifting under him as he rolls onto his side and squints hard to hold on to the last vestiges of sleep.

There are no nightmares, but Taekwoon still opens his eyes.

Something minute changes in the air, barely making itself known before it is shattered by the sound of a fist on his door, ripping through the thin darkness before dawn.

He groans softly, throwing a forearm over his face.

He can hear the sound of splintering as the knocking transitions into pounding. His door is strong, but not strong enough to withstand such a beating for long. He pads to the door on silent feet, letting the sound of the latch unhooking indicate his presence, and cracks it open just a sliver to see outside.

The boy standing in the doorway looks even younger than Wonsik, despite being tall and broad enough to resemble a tree. Taekwoon squints against the light of his lantern. It casts pale ghosts on the trees surrounding Taekwoon’s cabin and illuminates the boy’s large features on a fine-boned face, not yet fully grown. A few paces behind, a second boy, doe-eyed and barely older than the first, holds two panting horses by their reins.

“Yes?” The boy holding the lantern quakes in his boots as the door opens a hair wider. Taekwoon might have been more sympathetic if they had arrived at more reasonable hour, but in the dead of the night, he has no patience for anything more than a crabby scowl up towards the general direction of his face.

The boy stares at him, mouth hanging open.

“Well?” Taekwoon demands.

No response. He makes to shut the door, but the second boy calls out.

“We are knights of the kingdom. We serve in the king’s guard.” He steps forward, shoving the reins impatiently towards the first boy. His pretty lips twist, tasting something sour, as he regards Taekwoon’s unimpressed look. “Sanghyuk, take the horses. I told you I should have delivered the message.”

“The king’s guard,” Taekwoon repeats, raising an eyebrow at Sanghyuk, who flushes, frowning, and drops his gaze.

In the light of the lantern, a golden pin glints on his chest. Taekwoon squints and sees it is melted into the familiar shape of a small flame.

“Yes.” The second knight raises his chin, eyes flashing with challenge. “We serve His Majesty Hakyeon, first dragon of his name.”

“Hakyeon?” Taekwoon says, surprised. The knight flinches at the strength in his voice. “When did this happen?”

“Eight nights ago, when the old king passed. We rode out immediately.”

Taekwoon frowns. He hadn’t known Hakyeon’s father had died, but it takes a while for news to spread to the coast. Jungsu had been ill and weak for a long time, though, so Taekwoon recovers quickly from the shock.

“It takes ten days to reach here.”

“We switched horses along the way,” the knight replies evenly. “In this time of emergency, many lords we passed along the way were willing to lend help.”

“Emergency?”

The knight frowns as if troubled, shoving a piece of parchment through the crack in the doorway. In the weak, shivering light of Sanghyuk’s lantern, Taekwoon can see the stamp of the king’s dragon on the blue wax seal.

“The Fire of the South has flared for the first time in five hundred years. We come bearing an official summons from His Majesty calling his champion back to court.”

Taekwoon can feel the blood draining from his face.

“Five years have passed since my exile,” he mutters, accepting the parchment. He peels off the seal with his thumbnail, scanning its contents. The familiar neat script at the bottom sends his stomach to his feet. “Surely Hakyeon has found a new champion?”

“ _His Majesty_ abides by the law, which states that a new champion can only be instated when the previous has either died or been bested in combat.”

“ _Law_. There is only one law that rules this land, and it is not a law dictated by any king,” Taekwoon retorts.

“A children’s rhyme,” the knight says stiffly. “Maybe you’ve grown soft over the years, but a properly functioning state requires real laws to govern its people.”

He holds Taekwoon’s glare with a proud set in his shoulders, but Taekwoon can see him tightening his trembling hands into fists.

“His Majesty needs you,” the knight grits out, “…champion.”

He casts his eyes down, defiant stare burning holes into the dirt.

“Fine,” Taekwoon growls, throwing open the door. “We leave in two hours, after I wake my apprentice and see that my post is filled in my absence.”

“Your post?” the knight frowns.

“I lend my services to the lord of the Northern Pass in return for food and lodging,” Taekwoon says, “Did you think I was unemployed? Wake up, Wonsik!” The last part is directed towards the back of the cabin in a thunderous roar that makes both knights jump and the horses whinny.

He receives an answering yelp in reply, followed by the patter of scrambling steps.

“Master,” Wonsik says when he reaches the door. He stumbles a bit, sleepiness rendering his long limbs clumsy. Taekwoon is still working on training him to wake up instantly alert. It's the sort of habit one develops over many years, after all. “Who are these men?”

“They are knights from the king’s guard,” Taekwoon says, rooting around the mess on the kitchen table for a quill and parchment. He ignores the bowl of rotting fruit and digs around for something unstained. “We have received a summons from the king.”

“ _You_ have received a summons from the king,” the knight at the door interrupts, frowning at Wonsik, who is still struggling to fully manifest shock on his sleepy features. His droopy eyes widen comically as his mouth rounds with shock, and he clutches at the doorframe.

“The _king_ ,” Wonsik repeats in a squeak.

“Yes, yes,” Taekwoon waves, his hand, scribbling something down. “ _I_ have received a summons, and since Wonsik is an apprentice and therefore is bound to me in a contract of glorified servitude, he has received a summons as well. Wonsik, I need you to take this message to Lord Seo. It will inform him that we are leaving for the capital and he will need to replace this post. Do not forget to request two fresh horses for these two young men.”

“Are we not coming back?” Wonsik asks, eyes wide.

Taekwoon pauses to consider. “I don’t know.” He resumes writing.

 

Wonsik reemerges into the ring of trees two hours later with a yawning stable boy and two horses, as requested. He is met by Taekwoon and the two knights swinging up into their saddles, ready to depart.

“What did Lord Seo say?” Hongbin asks somewhere behind him as Taekwoon guides his horse around. He holds up a second lantern, and its shaky yellow light bleeds into the ghosts cast by the one Sanghyuk is still holding.

“Good luck and safe travels,” Wonsik replies. “He also gave me a letter to bring to the court, for his brother.”

The sky is dark in the hours before sunrise, lit only by the moon, and they are careful to stay on the road. Taekwoon rides out in front, holding out his lantern and training his eyes on the beaten dirt path.

Wonsik, friendly as always, quickly starts a light conversation with the two knights, whose responses growing haltingly longer. The second knight, Taekwoon soon learns, is named Hongbin. He is the second son of some lord or another in the court, for which he is intensely proud. He puffs his chest when he tells Wonsik that he has been in the king’s guard, previously the prince’s guard, for two years.

Sanghyuk, on the other hand, was knighted a mere five months prior.

 _They are nothing but children_ , Taekwoon thinks. _Hakyeon, what are you doing?_

Hongbin, Taekwoon also learns, strongly disapproves of the current king’s champion. He does not hesitate to voice that opinion aloud within earshot. Wonsik makes a valiant attempt at defending his master, but Taekwoon soon senses that Hongbin is much too scathing for Wonsik’s well-meaning but feeble words.

At one point, Sanghyuk musters the courage to aim a question at Taekwoon. His voice is soft as he asks, “Sir, why did you leave the capital?”

 _Did this boy not grow up in the court?_ Taekwoon thinks. _He does not know._

“My mother and I were exiled after my father killed the crown prince,” he says.

It is blunt and he does not offer further explanation, but it is enough to shock Sanghyuk into silence. Hongbin and Wonsik’s bickering dies out too as the sky lightens enough for them to see the road and set a faster pace for the horses. The snap of wind in their ears soon drowns out any sound lower than a shout, so they travel in silence.

 

 

\--

 

 

They stop to stay the night at an inn outside one of the larger villages about a days’ ride from Lord Seo’s residence. Taekwoon lingers to care for the horses, ignoring the stable boy’s protests, and tosses a bag of coppers to Wonsik to find them rooms for the night.

Sanghyuk disappears as soon as Taekwoon starts to rub down his horse, but Hongbin lingers behind to watch.

“Traitor.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Taekwoon is fine.”

“Traitor,” Hongbin repeats, mouth stubbornly hard.

“I outrank you.”

“Your title is not official yet.” It’s true. In normal times, Taekwoon would have received the sword at Hakyeon’s coronation, but they would not arrive in time. “I’ll call you what I want until then.”

Taekwoon considers it for a moment, then shrugs. “Not the first time I’ve been called names.”

“Like what?” Hongbin asks, a hint of curiosity creeping into his tone. Taekwoon is a legend, after all, even if his fame stinks of shame.

“‘Dog,’ ‘bastard,’ ‘whoreson,’ ‘boot-licker,’” Taekwoon starts, voice cool, “‘dogshit’—”

Hongbin grimaces. “‘Dogshit?’ What’d you do to earn that one?”

Taekwoon frowns. He hadn’t meant to say that one, but it had slipped out. They say old habits die hard. “Your precious king was a brat of a boy.”

“Don’t speak of His Majesty like that,” Hongbin says hotly. He pauses. “You were on familiar terms with him?”

Taekwoon merely shrugs.

Hongbin eyes him suspiciously. “What are you doing in the stables?”

“Caring for the horses.” He sets down the comb and falls back into the straw, letting his eyes drift half-shut. His horse, a young bay, nuzzles curiously at his cheek.

“No,” Hongbin huffs, “ _Why_? You look like a peasant.”

“Well, I don’t own any lands. Nor do I hold any official titles in court, as you so graciously pointed out earlier,” Taekwoon says. “I’m hardly a nobleman, am I?”

Hongbin stares at him for a long time. “What have you been doing the last five years?”

“I have been working as a mercenary of sorts for the Seo family.”

“A mercenary,” Hongbin says blankly.

“Yes,” Taekwoon sighs. “I survey the Northern Passes and make sure the roads are clear. I hunt down bandits and escort important guests through the mountains during the winter months, when there is higher chance of rock falls. I investigate crimes or reports of suspicious activities in Lord Seo’s lands. On occasion, I have been invited to his household to evaluate his arms master’s training regiments. I am, for all intents and purposes, a mercenary masquerading as an extended guest.”

There is a long pause before Hongbin speaks again. “You,” he says, “are a disgrace to the crown.”

Taekwoon does not open his eyes. He says, in a soft voice, “I’ve been called worse.”

 

The next morning finds Taekwoon hunched over an early breakfast of rice mixed with light beans and roots cured in salt. The fare is local, nothing Taekwoon has encountered before, but the woman who serves them looks scandalized when Wonsik asks if she has something simpler, like fish.

“We’re too far inland,” Taekwoon tells him after she leaves with an emphatic _No_. “Transported fish is hard to keep fresh here. Even salted fish is expensive.”

Wonsik picks at the roots, frowning as he takes a tentative bite and rolls the food on his tongue. “These are preserved in salt, though. Where do they get it if not from the sea?”

Taekwoon sighs. “Wonsik, did you not study the maps I gave you last spring? There are salt mines just half a days’ ride from here. Salt does not go bad easily like fish.”

While they talk, Sanghyuk wolfs down three portions of rice, and Hongbin looks on in disgust.

They ride out in the dark with sore backs and a bite or two from the bed bugs. Everyone is quiet in the saddle for the first hour or so, but Sanghyuk soon begins to squirm.

“Can you not sit still?” Hongbin finally snaps after another hour.

Sanghyuk freezes.

“The two of you have been riding for twelve days,” Taekwoon remarks dryly.

“We need to reach the capital as soon as possible,” Hongbin growls. “The kingdom needs a champion to rally behind. His Majesty needs someone to lead his armies.”

“I have never been Hakyeon’s champion,” Taekwoon says. He ignores Wonsik’s concerned stare.

“It has been hundreds of years since this kingdom has seen demons,” Hongbin says tightly. “We cannot afford to fight without a champion right now.”

“It’s been five hundred years,” Taekwoon says. “You think—” He breaks off, eyes widening. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle as something rustles to their right.

“What?” Hongbin asks, irritated. “I think what?”

Taekwoon stops his horse and holds his hand up, signaling them to be quiet.

There is another faint disturbance, a little closer this time. Irrational fear begins to pool in his belly. He fights it down and turns back to Wonsik and the two knights.

He tilts his head and points a finger towards his ear. _You hear that?_

Wonsik swallows and nods.

“Two,” he says, voice quavering. His assessment, though, is accurate.

Hongbin and Sanghyuk look between the two of them, faces pale.

“Fuck,” Taekwoon curses, swinging his leg over the side of the saddle. “Fuck, I didn’t think they would travel so quickly. Dismount, _right now_. If they kill the horses, we’ll never reach the capital. And whatever you do, don’t stand where the firelight won’t hit you.”

_What kills a demon?_

He draws his sword, and hears the slither of steel as the other three do the same. The horses begin to whinny, the buckles of their saddles rattling as they jitter nervously. He takes a deep breath, thinking back to his training.

_What kills a demon? Only fire, gold, and magic._

“Fire and gold,” he says. “Does any—”

The first demon leaps into the light, dark as ink, as if it were an extension of the shadows, and crawls forward at an alarming speed, completely silent. He steps forward before the fear can freeze his limbs, and its claws screech as they meet the flat of his blade. It thrashes and opens its mouth in a soundless roar, revealing a pitch-dark maw ringed in cruel, sharp teeth.

To his right, he hears Sanghyuk yell as the second demon pounces, as eerily quiet as the first. He disentangles himself from the demon’s claws and takes a swing, but it deflects his blade easily and bowls him over. He hits the ground, the breath rushing out of him, and scrambles to drive his sword at its rapidly descending mouth. This close, he can see the saliva clinging to its sharp teeth, can smell the stench of rotting meat on its breath, and he fights the wave of bile rising in his throat.

“Wonsik,” he chokes out. “Arrows—the lanterns!” He’s too busy trying to crawl out from under the monster to see if Wonsik heard.

No matter how much he stabs his steel blade up into its body, it does not relent in its attacks. He hears a scream from his left, where Sanghyuk and Hongbin are wrangling the second beast.

“Wonsik!” he barks, pushing the demon as far back as he can, and is rewarded with a heavy _thunk_ as a flaming arrow sinks into the monster’s side.

As if rising from deep water, the sound of a screech fills his ears, and he realizes with a lurch of disgust that it is the creature that is screaming. It writhes as the flames spread with terrifying speed, as if devouring oil and not shadows.

He shoves it off his body with a grunt and stumbles to his feet. As he watches, the flames flare for a moment, and then there is nothing, not even ash, left where the demon had fallen. For a moment, he thinks he might vomit, but then a hand claps his shoulder and he is peering into Wonsik’s sweaty, bloodless face.

“Master, are you hurt?” he says, and his voice comes in sharp pants.

“Hakyeon’s knights,” Taekwoon manages to gasp, turning just in time to see Hongbin clamber onto its back, branding his sword in both hands and hacking at its limbs with desperate, artless strokes as Sanghyuk parries its whip-like arms.

The boy is fast on his feet, darting in and out as he slashes at the monster, keeping it busy as Hongbin chops at its back.

“You need gold or fire to kill it!” Taekwoon calls out, moving forward to help before he thinks of something else. He turns to Wonsik. “Get another arrow ready.”

Wonsik complies, soaking a wet rag in oil and wrapping it behind the arrowhead, but as he moves to dip it in the lantern, the monster swipes at Sanghyuk, sending his sword clattering into the darkness.

“Sanghyuk!” Hongbin shouts, driving his blade hilt-deep into the base of the monster’s neck. Effectively distracted from Sanghyuk, the creature instead begins to buck and flings its head back, sending Hongbin hurtling into the air.

He lands with a loud thud and lies still, his grip on his sword slack. The demon stalks after him, baring its teeth as it approaches for the kill.

“Wonsik, now!” Taekwoon commands, taking an aborted half-step towards the beast, but Sanghyuk is faster.

He darts forward, holding a short dagger, and leaps onto the demon’s back, where Hongbin had clung on just moments ago. With a yell, he slams the hilt down squarely on the creature’s head and, to Taekwoon’s shock, it begins to disintegrate, melting into shadow and then nothing.

Sanghyuk clutches the dagger in his hand and falls to his knees, retching until his entire breakfast has come up again.

“Hongbin,” Wonsik crouches by the other knight, already digging in his pockets for bandages.

After a moment, he stirs and groans, wheezing as his eyes flutter open.

“What the fuck,” he says hoarsely when he can speak again. “Those were demons.”

“Well-observed,” Taekwoon says.

Hongbin groans as Wonsik prods at his wounds. “It wouldn’t die.”

“They can only be killed with fire, gold, or magic,” Taekwoon says. He turns to Sanghyuk. “May I see that knife?”

He nods, rising on trembling legs, and hands Taekwoon the dagger.

It is ceremonial, not used for fighting, and its hilt and grip are coated in gold. The intricate patterns carved into the soft metal have been bent hopelessly out of shape after being hammered into the demon’s skull, but Taekwoon can still make out the delicate peach blossoms that once bloomed at the base of the grip.

“Where did you get this?”

“The Grand Scholar,” Sanghyuk says, voice wavering with uncertainty. “He gave it to me right before we left. For luck, he said.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Sanghyuk hesitates. His gaze slips to his boots, and he shakes his head.

 _He’s lying._ Taekwoon frowns. _Why?_

After a moment, he gives the knife back, hilt-first. Sanghyuk takes it gingerly with his thumb and forefinger, sliding it back into the leather sheath on his belt. When he tugs his coat shut, the scarred metal slips out of view again.

Wonsik helps Hongbin sit up and climb to his feet. He rolls his shoulders and stretches when he is standing, wincing as he leans a little too far to the left.

“I can ride,” he says finally. He picks up his sword, and walks to where Sanghyuk dropped his on the road. The other knight flinches when he holds it out.

“Thank you,” he mutters, cleaning it on his trousers.

“Master, what do we do now?” Wonsik asks.

“We can’t travel in the dark anymore. It’s too dangerous,” Taekwoon says. “Any objections?” He looks at Hongbin, expecting a challenge, but the knight looks away.

He swings up into the saddle, wincing as the movement jostles the bruises already forming on his back, and they make haste as the sky lightens overhead.

 

 

\--

 

 

The second night of travel, they manage to barely make it into a small town with an empty inn before nightfall. The third night, they are not as lucky and make camp a distance from the road.

Taekwoon sets up a fire before the sun has fully set, putting Wonsik and the two knights to work collecting branches and smaller bits of wood for kindling and tinder.

“That’s a big fire,” Hongbin says when he returns to see the size of the pit he’s dug out. He squints critically. “It will be easy to spot from the road. Aren’t you worried we’ll be ambushed and robbed?”

Taekwoon grunts, “We’re four armed men with little to nothing worth stealing. Demons, on the other hand, can be repelled by fire.”

Hongbin shudders, but dumps his wood in a pile near Taekwoon’s feet and trudges off to find more.

The meal passes in silence, hard bread and jerky with fresh fruit taken from the inn that morning.

“Why don’t we tell stories?” Wonsik speaks up eventually.

“Stories?” Hongbin repeats doubtfully.

“It’s a good way of passing the time,” Wonsik says, ignoring Taekwoon’s long-suffering look. “Master and I went on trips sometimes, when the highway robberies were getting bad. We shared stories at night.”

“It sounds like it could be amusing,” Sanghyuk shrugs diplomatically.

Hongbin raises an eyebrow at him. “You have one, then?”

He flinches, shaking his head.

“Why don’t Master or I start?” Wonsik gives Taekwoon a pleading glance. “Seeing as we’re used to it.”

“Why don’t you tell a story I haven’t heard before, then?” Taekwoon shoots back. His seat aches from the long ride, and he doesn’t particularly want to talk.

“Master,” Wonsik starts, but a glare from Taekwoon cuts him off.

“It seems he doesn’t really want to tell stories, either,” Hongbin observes.

“Please, Master,” Wonsik tries again, looking somewhat forlorn.

Taekwoon sighs. “You tell one first.”

“I’ll see if I can recall it,” Wonsik sighs dutifully. He pauses, looking thoughtful. “There’s one someone told me a long time ago. I don’t remember it very clearly anymore, but it was interesting.”

He clears his throat, adopting a slightly deeper intonation as he begins. “There was once a boy who lived with his mother and father and younger brother. There was a forest behind his home, and he and his brother went there to play every summer. One day, they wandered farther than usual, until the boy could hear the sound of rushing water. It was a particularly hot day, and he wanted to go play in the river, but his brother insisted he couldn’t hear the water. Eventually, he went on alone until he reached the river.”

He pauses for effect, and Taekwoon spots the two soldiers leaning into the firelight.

“Before he could dive in, a god rose from the water and told him he would not be able to swim, as the currents were too strong. It told the boy that if he completed three tests, the god would teach the boy how to endure the current. The boy very much wanted a swim, so he agreed.

“First, the god told him to fetch something the god could eat, because it was hungry. The boy reached into his pocket and took out a whole loaf of bread, a meal he had brought to eat himself, but the god refused, as it could not eat bread. The boy climbed an apple tree and plucked the ripest apple it could find, but the god refused again, claiming it could not eat apples. Finally, the boy set a snare and waited patiently until he caught a plump rabbit, and the god found it to its liking.

“Next, the god asked him to build a fire, so he might cook his meal. Now, the boy was very resourceful and had a flint in his pocket, so he built a fire and skinned the rabbit and roasted it for the god. The god ate the rabbit and declared it satisfactory.

“The boy thought he was doing quite well with the challenges, but the god warned him that the last challenge would be quite difficult to surpass. It told him to find it something brighter and more beautiful than gold. The boy considered for a moment, and then jumped straight into the river. He swam to its middle, where the shade from the trees did not cover the sky, and cupped a handful of water.

“‘Look how the sun shines on this water,’ he said, holding it out, and the god saw that the reflected sunlight was indeed brighter and more beautiful than gold.

“The god said nothing, but drank the water from the boy’s palm, and the boy swam and swam and found he did not sink in the currents. When he finally climbed up the riverbank of the other side, the god was gone and there was a little girl there instead, with hair the color of an early sunrise.

“She smiled at him and they ate fruits and swam and every day for the rest of the summer, he would go back to the river to play with the girl.”

He breaks off, frowning. “How did it go again? I think the boy grew up and married the girl and had three children, and then he joined the war and died. It had a sad ending.”

They are silent for a moment, absorbing the tale. The fire crackles as Taekwoon reaches forward to feed it twigs.

“That was—not bad,” Hongbin admits. “A bit odd, though. I’ve never heard a tale of a river god before.”

“The smaller villages on the coast still worship the old gods.” Wonsik gives a small smile. “It’s a tradition that’s remained from before the dragon kings. Or at least that’s what Master told me.”

He glances at Taekwoon, who nods and adds, “The practice long has died out in the central regions.”

“You’re not from the coastal lands?” Hongbin says, looking at him curiously.

Taekwoon shakes his head. “I grew up in the capital.”

“Is that so.” Hongbin surveys him appraisingly and ignores the dirty look Taekwoon returns. “Wouldn’t have guessed it, from the way you look, now.”

“My father was of noble birth,” Taekwoon says, resisting the urge to brush a hand through his long, bedraggled hair. “He didn’t have many holdings, but our name was old. Of course, no use in keeping up looks now.”

“Yesterday, you said you were a bastard. Who was your mother?”

Sanghyuk balks. “Hongbin, you can’t just ask—”

“Do you know of the Seven Virgins?”

“The Seven Virgins?” Hongbin shakes his head.

“There was once a Lord Kwon in the Eastern provinces,” Taekwoon replies, voice flat. “He had eight unmarried daughters, all known for their peerless beauty. Eligible young men across the land fought tooth and nail for their good graces. They were known as the Seven Virgins.”

Wonsik frowns. “Weren’t there eight daughters?”

“One of the daughters was my mother,” Taekwoon says dryly. “So she was not a virgin. Incidentally, she was also not my father’s wife. The problem, however, was that no one knew which one had given birth to me, as the lord refused to submit one of his daughters to being a mere mistress.”

“What happened to them?” Sanghyuk asks hesitantly.

“They all died unmarried. No one knew which one was no longer innocent and no man would risk losing his holdings to another man’s son upon his death. When I was four years old, the entire estate burned down in a fire, until there were only bones left. The lord had no legitimate heir, as he had no brothers, sons, nor grandsons, so his lands were absorbed into my father’s. Of course, they were all given up to the crown five years ago.”

Hongbin blinks. “And you just dispense this information to anyone who asks?”

Taekwoon shrugs. “It’s been five years. No one recognizes me like this, so poorly-groomed.”

“But don’t you have any pride?” Hongbin’s lip curls. “What would your family think of you, soiling his name like this?”

Taekwoon shoots him a thin-lipped smile. “My father did perfectly well soiling it on his own. To a bastard, there is no such concept as bringing honor to one’s family name. Now, I believe you requested a story of me before we began to discuss my illegitimate heritage,” he glances around the fire. “Do you still want to hear it?”

Hongbin stares at him warily. Sanghyuk and Wonsik are silent.

“Fine, then.” Taekwoon shrugs. “Another night, maybe.”

Shortly after, they crawl into their bedrolls and Taekwoon stays up to take the first shift, stirring the fire so its smoke is thick enough to mask the stars wheeling overhead.

 

 

\--

 

 

The next night, they set up camp under a clear sky. When Hongbin protests at their slow progress, Taekwoon asks dryly if he would prefer to be attacked by demons again. He gives one last mutinous glare, but clamps his jaw shut and dutifully retrieves more branches and dry shrubbery from the surrounding woods.

They warm cold hands against the heat of the fire and listen as Sanghyuk shares a melancholy tale of a cobbler who falls in love with a young nobleman after patching his shoes. The ending is quite sad, with the cobbler dying of heartbreak after the nobleman marries someone of his own standing, but the quiet yearning of the poor man carries in Sanghyuk’s hushed tones, and Taekwoon finds his throat tight at the end of the story.

“That was quite beautiful,” Wonsik says when he finishes, and the boy flushes at his praise.

“It was a story my father told me when I was young,” Sanghyuk says.

Hongbin stares into the heart of the fire, scowling, and scuffs his boots into the dirt.

The fifth night, Wonsik asks for stories again, shooting a pointed look at Taekwoon, and they are all surprised when Hongbin answers. He levels a challenging look around the fire, daring them to voice their doubts, and no one says a word.

With short sentences, he carves out a tale of an archer with impeccable aim who tries to shoot the sun out of the sky. Despite many attempts, her arrows always fall short, so she sets out to find the strongest bow in the world. She befriends many companions who accompany her on her journeys, and yet they all eventually leave her to lead their own lives. After many years, she builds a house at the peak of the highest mountain she can find and every day, watches as the sun climbs up to sit with her on her porch. When she finally dies, alone and grayed with age, the sun burns away her body and home, as there is no one left to bury her.

“Does the sun not seem like a god in that story?” Wonsik points out. “It seems as if it has grown attached to her through the years.”

Hongbin tilts his head thoughtfully. After a moment, he shrugs.

“Then there,” Wonsik spreads his hands. “So you _have_ heard stories of the old gods.”

Hongbin’s lips stretch in a small smile. “I suppose you could say that.”

 

The sixth evening, they reach the estate of a small countryside duke, who is all too eager to house them and change their horses. By this time, the news has spread everywhere: the demons have returned to haunt the shadows of the mortal world.

They are lodged in the guest wing, where they wash and eat.

Taekwoon lays awake for a long time that night, sheets pooled around his waist. There is a small window in his room, beams of moonlight falling through the gap in roughly hewn stone to settle faintly on his skin.

He twitches his fingers and feels his stomach over layers of cloth, fancying he can detect the ghostly prickle of an old scar that runs through the side of his abdomen. When he closes his eyes, he sees a smooth stillness beneath his lids, darkness laced with imagined ripples and ghosts of flowers on the surface of a pond.

His eyes snap open again and he can see only the moon, round and luminous in a satin sky.

He rises well before the break of dawn, padding through empty halls. If anyone is still awake, they do not hear his silent tread as he paces back and forth in the dark, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Upon rounding the corner, he starts as he sees a figure curled against the wall, loose white shirt falling from shoulders that are still broad even when hunched.

“Sanghyuk,” Taekwoon says, and the boy jumps violently, halfway to his feet before he registers Taekwoon’s voice.

“Oh,” he says halfheartedly, shrinking down again. “I’m sorry, sir. Did I wake you?”

“Taekwoon is fine,” he says, heart stirring despite himself. He looks young, the same age Taekwoon had been when he left the capital _._ “No. I couldn’t sleep.”

Sanghyuk pulls his knees a little closer to himself, and Taekwoon feels something ease a little in his chest. The boy is tall and broad, but he has the same hesitant look Jaehwan had given the older children when they were younger and running madly through the palace gardens, playing pretend knights and thieves.

Taekwoon gestures down at the floor. “May I?”

Sanghyuk nods timidly.

“Your sword work against the demons,” Taekwoon starts, and the boy visibly tenses. “It was quite impressive for your age. You train under Eunkwang, am I right?”

Sanghyuk gives him a nervous glance, and Taekwoon realizes too late that Eunkwang now inhabits a position that only exists in the first place because _Taekwoon_ is not there to lead the king’s guard.

“We were good friends growing up,” Taekwoon says, giving what he hopes is a reassuring, if small, smile. “I recognized the technique.”

“I attended the same school,” Sanghyuk says after a moment. “I entered much later, though.”

“That would explain.” Taekwoon pauses awkwardly. “How is the king? What do you think of him?”

“He will make a fine king,” Sanghyuk says quietly, but with conviction. “He is kind and stern and shrewd when he needs to be, and the people love him when he speaks. I am—not glad that His Majesty’s brother was killed, but I am happy to follow His Majesty.”

Taekwoon blinks, something warm stirring in his stomach. He sighs. “Then he is doing well.”

Sanghyuk looks at him with wide eyes.

Taekwoon lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“No,” Sanghyuk rushes to say, then hesitates, frowning. “No. I just thought—you served his brother and—”

“You thought I would not approve?” Taekwoon finishes.

Sanghyuk nods.

“I was Hakyeon’s closest friend long before I became champion.”

Sanghyuk frowns.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No,” Sanghyuk says reflexively. He continues, haltingly, “I suppose, I am confused. Why did you—?” He leaves the question unfinished, fumbling with his hands.

Taekwoon hums. “How about I tell you a story? I would have saved it for a campfire, but we need a way to pass the time.”

Sanghyuk looks at him, uncomprehending.

“I’m sure you’ve heard some form of this before.” And in soft tones, with nothing but the light of the moon on his face, Taekwoon tells a bedside story that children in the palace learn when they are young.

“There was once a dragon king who had two sons, born from the same womb on the same night. They emerged mere minutes from one another and, in the madness that is childbirth, the physicians neglected to mark the one that came first. The king was kind of heart and believed the best of men, so he did not mind.

“He raised both boys to be good rulers, graceful and proud and wise, and he believed their reign would be prosperous, for what better to tie the kingdom than the love between two siblings who shared a womb?

“The old king lived to a ripe age and eventually died peacefully, leaving the throne to his heirs. The first few years, the kingdom flourished, but the two kings, upon seeing wealth and power beyond their greatest dreams, began to grow greedy. Each wanted to rule the kingdom himself.

“There was great bloodshed. It was the first war in the long line of dragon kings, and it ultimately ended when one of the brothers was killed in his sleep by his own nephew, who wished to inherit the throne from his father. The kingdom was torn in two and the surviving king learned a lesson that he passed down to his sons: there is greed in dragon’s blood. There will can only be one rightful king in each generation, and to put another on the throne would be to plunge the kingdom into war.”

He looks at Sanghyuk, who stares back with wide eyes.

“I was Hakyeon’s closest friend long before I became champion,” he says again. “Do you believe I would have been permitted to continue as such afterwards?”

He climbs to his feet and leaves.

 

 

\--

 

 

The seventh day, they enter the grasslands, endless plains that wave and ripple like water in the wind. Riding through the tall grass feels endless, and they encounter few people on the road.

At night, they light large fires and tell no stories. They are tired of traveling, and there are no more stories they wish to tell. Taekwoon sits up through the first watch always, whether or not it is his, and watches the moon shine bright overhead. Its cold light is never strong enough to filter through the orange firelight, dying just before it falls on his skin.

They ride over the crest of the last hill on the eve of the tenth day. Taekwoon stops his horse at the top and drinks in the familiar sight of the valley spilling out below them, green and fertile and warm under a haze of gray fog. Nestled within the folds of farmland is the capital, a sprawl of thousands of buildings ringed by stone walls. The palace itself gleams in pearly white marble, like a jewel at the center of the city.

“Welcome back,” Hongbin mutters, and Taekwoon nudges his horse to move again.

They say that when a dragon king dies, he ascends into flames.

This legend is based on true tales, spun from records of the first dragon king, who died in battle with the last of the demons and burst into fire as the last of his lifeblood trickled from his wounds. He had spoken his last in rusted iron breath, in a voice that was not his own. It had been the voice of a dragon, the same dragon who had sealed the gate in flames and taken with it the demons and their magic.

And then the dragon itself, a massive winged beast armored in glittering gold over Its breast, had alighted by the dragon king’s side and breathed a goodbye in magic over his brow, sealing with it a promise that would burn through generations of his descendants.

_A dragon is a cruel beast. It loves only fire, gold, and blood._

The next moment, the dragon king closed his eyes and burst into flames, lighting with him the battlefield of demons.

They say that when a dragon king wills it, he becomes one with the fire. None of the kings after have died in battle like the first, but they all left the mortal world wrapped in flames high enough to paint the sky with soot.

King Jungsu burns for nine days and nine nights on the pyre, but his death itself had been a quiet sigh of breath, lost in the folds of his bedsheets. A dark gauze of smoke and ash still hangs over the capital when Hongbin leads them through the gates, giving the guards imperious nods as they pass.

“How fitting,” Taekwoon mutters to himself. He had left the capital choked in a hurricane of smoke and ash, and now it has returned to greet him as they advance, the clatter of hooves incessant against smooth cobblestones, toward the heart of the city.

Sanghyuk gives him a searching look, but Taekwoon ignores him.

 

At the palace gate, there is a familiar face, more angled than Taekwoon remembers. He wears the pale yellow robes of a scholar, with wide sleeves and a simple cut. He stares at Taekwoon with an inscrutable gaze, lips pulled tight into a not-quite frown.

“Hongbin, Sanghyuk,” he says, and his voice is flat, much quieter than Taekwoon is used to hearing. “You’re back.”

“This is the Grand Scholar, Lee Jaehwan,” Hongbin murmurs. “He is the third son of—”

“Lord Lee of the Spiral Peaks,” Taekwoon finishes for him. “I am acquainted with Jaehwan.”

“A man with many connections,” Hongbin mutters, frowning.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Taekwoon.” Jaehwan’s expression betrays no sentiment of the sort. He gives a short bow, which Taekwoon returns once he has dismounted. It is not the bow of old friends greeting one another.

“And you,” Taekwoon replies. “Thank you for your gift. For good luck, you said? It aided us immensely on the journey here.”

The corners of Jaehwan’s lips pull into a small, but definite frown. His eyes flicker towards Sanghyuk. “I am glad to hear it. I was not sure it would come into use.”

“Not at all. It saved our lives, you might venture to say.” He licks his lips. “Almost as if you knew.”

The frown deepens slightly, but Jaehwan says nothing more than, “Come along and make haste. The king wished to see you immediately upon your return.”

Taekwoon takes a deep breath, the issue of the knife temporarily forgotten.

“Lead on,” he says, even though he knows the palace as well as he does the lines of his own palm.

They are to meet Hakyeon in the king’s chambers. Taekwoon is relieved, in some sick, detached sense, that the reunion will occur in private.

Hongbin sneers at the thought, “Privacy does not exist for a king.”

His mouth, though, twists in a complicated scowl, and Taekwoon knows enough to understand that he feels distaste. Jaehwan says nothing, his face foreign and impassive.

Some things have changed.

(Others have not. A bitter thought.)

They enter the antechamber one at a time, with Jaehwan leading and Taekwoon last. He stands with his back to the door, ignoring the low couches that an ornate carpet at the center of the room, draped artfully with lavish silks. Taekwoon recognizes them from the old king’s rule, as he does the carved wood panels that line the walls and the handspun glass figures that hang above the carpet like diamonds dripping from the ceiling.

“I will go call him,” Jaehwan says, still irritatingly expressionless.

The door shuts after him with a gentle _snick_ , and the ensuing silence is thick.

After a moment, Sanghyuk addresses him. “I’m afraid there’s something I don’t understand.” He glances at Taekwoon. “You said you knew the king when you were young.”

Wonsik frowns. Hongbin looks between them, raising an eyebrow.

Taekwoon exhales, long and slow. He nods.

“You said you were his closest friend before you were the champion.”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” Sanghyuks says. “Then why did you become his brother’s—”

The door opens, and Jaehwan stands in the doorway, a tumult of emotion flashing briefly across his face. He glances at Taekwoon, and the only word to describe his expression would be _troubled_.

He stands to the side, and at the first sound of steel-toed boots clicking cleanly on the marble floor, they drop to their knees in the traditional bow reserved for the royal head of state. His heart clambers into his throat, but Taekwoon’s body remembers the exact placement of his knees, the hunch of his back, the angle at which to hold up his proffered fists. He stares at the floor and waits.

“It has been a long time.”

Taekwoon flinches. Hakyeon’s voice has not changed, but his tone is different—richer and calmer. Fit for a king. Nevertheless, it is still different from his brother’s.

“Your Majesty,” they murmur as one, heads bent at the perfect angle.

A sigh. “Rise.”

Taekwoon lifts his head and looks into the eyes of the king.

He looks different, and he looks the same. His jaw, the length of his lashes, the curl of his hair against his forehead, and shape his mouth are seared into Taekwoon’s memory, long after he has tried to forget. He recognizes the shrewd eyes and fluid limbs as Hakyeon tilts his head and stares, expressionless.

He has seen this gaze a thousand times, trained upon rude noblemen who dared to speak over the second prince, maids who gossiped too loudly of the late queen, stable boys who snickered at the bastard champion, but he has never been on the receiving end. The prickle at the back of his neck is foreign and plucks sorely at the tender spot that still lives in his chest.

Finally, Hakyeon holds his hand out. It is the traditional gesture, and Taekwoon knows what he is expected to do. He bends low over the hand, grasping the warm fingers with a hold that does not dare to be too tight, and, heart pounding, presses his lips to the heavy gold signet on Hakyeon’s middle finger. He lingers afterwards, breath ghosting over rough skin and the perfect crescents of his trimmed nails. After a long moment, he steps back abruptly, straightening at the waist.

“Welcome back, champion,” Hakyeon says.

Taekwoon’s mouth twists. If he had been in the throne room, he would have schooled his features into the practiced smoothness he had been taught long ago, but they are in Hakyeon’s private chambers and he supposes he has become coarse after all these years living in the forest.

“Hello, Hakyeon.”

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” Hongbin hisses, and it is clear he is correcting Taekwoon, not addressing Hakyeon.

“Hello, Hakyeon,” Taekwoon repeats, smiling blandly. Hakyeon remains neutral, eyes appraising rather than shuttered.

“You may leave,” Hakyeon addresses the rest of the room, still staring at Taekwoon. He says it like an order, and they obey.

Taekwoon holds his gaze until the room is empty.

“You really came,” Hakyeon says, and his composure has not slipped at all.

Some things have changed.

“I have,” Taekwoon agrees.

“I must admit I had my doubts,” Hakyeon says in that perfectly measured voice.

“You called me.” It does not come out quite as even as Taekwoon would have liked.

“Why did you come?”

Taekwoon studies Hakyeon’s face. It is one he has traced with his own hands countless times. He can still feel the ridges of his cheekbones and brow under his thumbs, and his hands itch to rise and run through the familiar lines once more. He knows this face better than he knows his own, and yet the expression is entirely foreign, smooth as the surface of blown glass.

_What do you want me to say?_

“You called me,” he says when he cannot discern an answer.

“But why did you come?” Hakyeon repeats.

“The kingdom needs me,” Taekwoon says. “You need me. You sent a letter.”

“You should know by now not to believe words on paper.”

“Even when they are written by you?”

Hakyeon hesitates, something akin to uncertainty flitting through his face for the first time. “Why did you come?”

“You needed my help,” Taekwoon says simply. “So I came. Do you wish for my aid?”

Hakyeon regards him for a long moment before he finally speaks. “What do you offer me, Jung Taekwoon?”

_What do you want me to say?_

There is no answer. Taekwoon bows quickly, not as deep as etiquette demands for a king, but deep enough for him to break eye contact.

“I offer my sword, my name, and my devotion.”

A long silence hangs between them. It yawns, a chasm that demands to be noticed, murmuring, _Five years._

_Five years, five years, five years._

( _Hakyeon. Hakyeon, Hakyeon, Hakyeon._ )

Something shivers in Taekwoon’s chest. Hakyeon is silent.

“Your Majesty,” Taekwoon murmurs. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. What else do you request?”

Hakyeon blinks, the second slip of his composure since he entered the room. He looks away.

“Nothing else, champion. You must be tired. Someone outside the door will show you your rooms.”

Taekwoon goes. He knows a dismissal when he sees one.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! let's pretend i didn't just finish a long fic about neo and magic.....in my defense the premise is really different this time.
> 
> i originally wanted to write something like c.s. pacat's captive prince. you can kind of see the influences if you squint but it didn't really happen......anyway i got distracted by the idea of dragons and magic and fantasy and got really carried away. this is literally so long.


	2. Mirror I: Taekwoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for abusive/neglectful behavior by parent(s) this chapter. also a lot of gore/violence/character death, as mentioned in the tags.
> 
> here is 8k of backstory :))

There is a story about the same boy from a different time, but really, all stories are just mirrors of one another. If you look closely, what appears to be new is just another forgotten thread that extends so far back, no one will know where it ever began.

This story, though, begins with a baby in the middle of the night, wrapped in the skirt of a silken dress, wailing in the outermost palace gardens.

It begins on the night the crown prince sees a full year and the lord of the Jung household discovers his firstborn son is a bastard. He has fathered two daughters and his wife will never give birth to a son for the rest of her life (and his life as well).

It begins with a baby swathed in a torn dress the color of buttercups that was once whole, that was once unlaced in the weeping moonlight by a man who had tired of his sickly wife. The baby is not left unidentified (that would have been too easy). Tucked into the basket, between the dress and the woven wicker, lies a torn note written in impeccable script that tells the world of a man’s first son, born in the shadows of his own follies.

And so Taekwoon arrives, dubbed by the same woman who had given birth to him, to steal the name of his father and grind it into the dust.

 _The bastard son_.

It begins with a peach stolen from the tree outside the queen’s window. It begins with a bastard and two princes and a foul name on a little boy’s tongue. It begins, really, with the queen bending this particular little boy over her knee and scolding him for his filthy tongue and disgraceful words towards the poor lord’s son.

_The bastard son._

The Jung estate is by no means large, but it is old. The corridors are lined with painstakingly preserved tapestries that tell stales of a lineage extending beyond the first dragon king. The Jung name is neither wealth nor power. It is honor.

Until Taekwoon arrives.

It begins when the bastard son of a disgraced lord with a name too old to snub first meets the second prince in the queen’s garden with fresh juice still dripping down his chin. They lock eyes, and Taekwoon never really looks away again.

The story begins when the third prince is never born, taking the queen with him, and, at the age of four, Hakyeon grows too old to be calling his peers names as he stands, face drooping with the weight of grief, beside two casks drastically different in size.

It ends, ultimately, with Taekwoon riding out of the city, choked and tearing from thick, hazy smoke as his mother strains to remain straight-backed in the saddle behind him. It ends with the two of them riding out in the dead of the night flanked by two hard-eyed guards as his father’s head hovers, regal and glassy-eyed, on the pikes above the palace walls.

But really, it begins and ends the year that Taekwoon first decides that he is old enough to fight for honor, the year that he turns eighteen. It begins and ends when he is chosen to be champion to the crown prince.

 

\--

 

“Get down, dogshit!”

Taekwoon watches with incredulity as the crown prince tests the words on his tender tongue, smacking his lips with relish. The peach still sits in his hand, dripping with juice, and he has forgotten the mass of pulpy flesh in his mouth.

He gulps and promptly chokes on the half-eaten lump.

“Dogshit,” the second prince repeats, glancing at his twin for confirmation. He fixes a single chubby finger at Taekwoon and scowls, “I could have you whipped for stealing from my mother.”

Taekwoon isn’t quite sure what to make of these boys, standing under him and hurling baseless insults. He ignores them and takes another bite.

“Guards!” The second prince’s voice is shrill and grates on Taekwoon’s ears.

Instead of guards, a flock of the queen’s ladies spread across the lawn, bright skirts puffed in the fresh spring wind, and scoop the three boys from the gardens to be scolded by the queen herself.

“Is this how I taught you to speak to others?”

Taekwoon watches with fascination as the queen herself bends her second son over her knee and lays a hard palm against his bottom. The little prince has no tears in his eyes, so the action is clearly intended to humiliate more than hurt. His brother watches on, quiet against the wall.

Finally, after two more hits, she lets him scramble off, red-faced and ashamed.

“If I hear you threatening lordlings in the palace again, the king will hear of it,” she says, sharp and severe. With an uncontestable note in her voice, she tells Hakyeon, “Apologize to him.”

He swallows and, with the force of one constipated, he says, “I’m sorry.”

His brother says nothing.

 

Taekwoon finds it quite strange, watching the two princes grow up together.

There’s a rule that he learns early on about the twins: Minhyuk belongs to the king, while Hakyeon belongs to the queen.

“I am named for the eighth king in my father’s line,” Minhyuk tells him proudly. “I will be the third dragon of my name.”

Hakyeon says, “I am named for my mother’s grandfather, and many who came before him.”

“My father,” says Minhyuk when Hakyeon says, “The king.”

“The queen,” says Minhyuk when Hakyeon says, “My mother.”

Minhyuk wears the royal red. Hakyeon wears the queen's blue. They both wear gold, because gold represents dragon's blood.

It is clear from the very beginning that they were taught to be different, yet they operate in tandem, two cogs that fit perfectly together.

“Bet you can’t climb the biggest tree in Mother’s gardens,” Minhyuk will say, and Hakyeon will hold the basket aloft as Minhyuk drops their stolen fruit in, one by one. Taekwoon never manages to win, no matter how high he climbs.

Afterwards, they sit on a ledge in the stone wall overshadowing the eastern training yard, careful to hide behind the hanging vines. The queen has a particular preference for stone fruit, so Minhyuk will core their spoils with the small pocket knife he always keeps hidden in his waistband and afterwards, Hakyeon throws them into the yard while no one is looking.

“Father never gave Hakyeon a knife,” Minhyuk says when Taekwoon asks why they never switch. “So I cut the fruit and he throws away the pits.”

“Liar,” Hakyeon protests hotly. “It’s because I have the sharper eye. When Minhyuk tries, the soldiers notice us right away.”

“Alright, if you say so,” Minhyuk says easily, and the matter is settled.

 

One day, Taekwoon happens upon Hakyeon crouching in a corner of the courtyard by the king’s chambers, a book balanced on his lap. He jumps when he sees Taekwoon, brushing the crumbs of a half-eaten loaf of bread off the pages.

“Where’s Minhyuk?” asks Taekwoon when he finally realizes what seems off.

Hakyeon puts a finger to pursed lips, somewhat futile because Taekwoon’s soft tone is never loud enough to attract much attention, and points to the window of Jungsu’s rooms.

“Studying,” Hakyeon whispers at a volume much louder than Taekwoon’s.

He frowns. “What are you doing out here?”

Hakyeon look down at the book, fiddling with the corner of a page absently. “His Majesty tutors Minhyuk in the afternoons once a week. Minhyuk lends me his books while he’s not looking.”

“Why don’t you just go inside and study with him?” Taekwoon wants to know.

Hakyeon chews his lip. “His Majesty doesn’t think it’s necessary for me to learn a king’s duties.”

Later, when Taekwoon is languid and dozing in the warm sunlight, he hears Hakyeon whisper, “I want a knife, too.”

After that, Taekwoon climbs the wall to the gardens behind the king’s chambers once a week in the afternoon and sits with Hakyeon while he reads and scrawls letters on borrowed parchment.

 

The queen dies in childbirth.

Taekwoon knows because he hears her ladies whispering as they tuck combs and silverware into their colorful skirts. He knows because he hears the news in between soft puffs of breath that transition into sobs as Hakyeon clutches at his shoulders, small nails digging in until they sting.

It is easy to dart between the maids’ skirts as they rush to and fro among the queen’s apartments, cleaning and fretting and crying. He reaches out for the nearest object he can grasp, and it is not until he returns to Hakyeon that he sees what he has retrieved.

Hakyeon cradles the knife close to his chest, stroking the pommel carved in peach blossoms as he wets the boiled leather sheath with tears. Later, Taekwoon will learn it was the first gift the king gave to his wife after their marriage.

For the first time, Taekwoon sees a burial ceremony. He clutches his mother hand, wriggling uncomfortably in his stiff clothes, and watches the king, his sons, and his court bid goodbye to the queen and her stillborn child.

Hakyeon remains her youngest living son. Minhyuk remains her oldest living son. Taekwoon is so far away, he can barely make out the stony set of Hakyeon’s face.

The mourners’ robes are white.

There are two caskets.

Both are closed.

They don’t light a pyre, because only kings may rest in dragon’s breath.

 

\--

 

“A scar on my honor,” Taekwoon’s father croaks. Taekwoon has heard the words in every variation—whispered, shouted, cried, and slapped into his cheek—and now he hears them again from a throat rough with drink.

“She mocks me,” he says, even long after the Virgins and their father have burned to death. He never visits his newly acquired lands; there are too many ghosts. “He walks before me every day, bearing the name that _she_ gave him.”

“You’re more mine than his,” Taekwoon’s mother says, rubbing salve into Taekwoon’s skin, and he agrees.

When he is young, he sits by her bedside on the days she is too weak to stand, and she sings him tales of her home by the sea.

Taekwoon was born in the east, where the desert meets the grasslands. He does not remember, but there are no mountains in the desert, and he knows only the trimmed grass and fish ponds of the palace.

“My son,” she calls him with a warm kiss to his forehead, and she tells him of the mountains of her girlhood, of fresh snow and hot springs hidden in the bedrock, of an endless shoreline that she and her sisters followed with dreams of walking around the entirety of the kingdom.

“The ocean is my home,” she always says. “It is where I was born, and it is where I will go when I die. It is where everyone goes when they die. The sea surrounds us. No matter which direction you walk—through the mountains in the north, the grasslands in the east, the desert in the south, or the swamplands in the west, you will always reach the ocean in the end.”

And with a far-away look in her eyes, she recounts to him a story of a time before the War of the Two Kings, when boats were large and they sailed and sailed and sailed until they reached another land where the people spoke unknown languages and wore different clothes.

 

“I will be a knight when I grow older,” Eunkwang confesses late at night, five boys’ faces illuminated by candlelight. “Father says I start training as soon as the first leaves of autumn fall.”

“I want to be a scribe,” says Jaehwan, who is short and pudgy and loud, younger than the other four. Nonetheless, he grew up in the palace with the others, among sprawling gardens and white marble columns and they accept him when he is old enough to wrestle with them without his mother objecting. “I want to read all the books in the library.”

They skip over Hakyeon and Minhyuk.

“Princes,” Minhyuk waves his hand. “We have no choice.”

“I want to be a hero,” Taekwoon breathes, because the veil of darkness makes him bold. “I will slay monsters and fight in great wars and write songs so everyone can sing about me and my father when I am older.”

In the end, he enrolls in the knights’ academy with Eunkwang come autumn.

 

They cut his hair short and move him into the barracks and give him wooden swords to swing.

“Like this,” they demonstrate, and he does the same motion until it is ingrained in his body.

Learning to be a soldier is straightforward. They give him tasks and they praise him when he accomplishes them. He grows tall and receives scars and gains hard, lean muscle. He learns the stories of the other boys and they learn his, but in the barracks, everyone is equal and no one cares that he is a bastard if he can knock them down in a spar.

Minhyuk often arrives in the yard to train with them. Hakyeon rarely accompanies him, but Taekwoon can see that he grips the sword with more ease every time he comes.

“His Majesty doesn’t think it’s necessary for me to learn a king’s duties,” he tells Taekwoon, and by now he has grown used to stating it as fact that lacks the bitter disappointment of his younger self. He adds, with a mischievous curl of a smile, “And I’ve been learning it elsewhere.”

 _Show me_ , Taekwoon desperately wants to say, but he knows, even at a young age, that it is important such things remain a secret.

Instead, he keeps an eye on Hakyeon, tracks his each and every movement, and greedily drinks in anything he can catch. The pace of his step here, the balance of his knees there, his keen gaze, his strong wrists, his graceful fingers, his silken hair, the faint flush of his skin when he exerts himself.

Somewhere along the way, Taekwoon becomes aware that his observations have become distracted, yet he never really minds enough to stop.

 

“I miss Mother’s peaches,” Hakyeon says one day, sitting in the sun-warmed dirt and watching Taekwoon dab medicine on a long, shallow cut reaching up his forearm. Minhyuk collapses onto the ground next to him, resting his head on his brother’s knee.

“Then go pick some,” he says, draping a hand across his face to block out the sun.

“Come with me,” Hakyeon replies, jiggling his knee until Minhyuk sits up again.

“I have lessons with Father in an hour,” he says mildly. “And I would like to bathe before then.”

“Then Taekwoon, you come,” Hakyeon fixes him with a stare that dares him to object.

He sighs and closes the jar of ointment, and Hakyeon smiles at his tacit obedience. When they reach the tree, Taekwoon realizes they have nothing with which to hold the peaches.

 “Hurry and climb,” Hakyeon orders, although Taekwoon can easily reach the lowest branches from the ground.

He climbs. Straddling one of the bigger branches, he tests his weight cautiously before starting to pick. He throws them at Hakyeon’s feet, watching how the sun sparkles against Hakyeon’s teeth as he grins.

When Hakyeon is satisfied, he sits down on the grass, looking out towards the pond, covered in floating lilies. With a careful hand, he picks out a ripe peach, wiping it against his trousers.

Taekwoon clambers down and joins him, sitting so the fruits are lying in a pile between them. He finds one that gives easily when he presses his thumb into the flesh. Swiping it against his sleeve, he takes a large bite.

“Are they as sweet as you remember?” Hakyeon asks, chuckling when Taekwoon nods. He inspects his own unblemished fruit for a moment before sinking his teeth in neatly for a piece not too big, but not small either.

Taekwoon watches as he eats, humming pleasantly, and it is not until Hakyeon catches his gaze that he realizes he has stopped chewing. His eyes flicker down to Hakyeon’s lips, dark and slick with juice, and when he looks up again, Hakyeon stares back with an inscrutable expression.

He swallows slowly, and Taekwoon trails the bob of his throat. He takes another bite, licking his lips deliberately as he pulls the fruit away. Distantly, Taekwoon thinks he must look stupid with sticky juice on his chin and sodden peach flesh bulging his cheeks.

He gulps and Hakyeon bursts out laughing when he promptly chokes.

 

Here is a secret: lilies, floating on a dark pond. The moonlight drapes around them like strands of silver hair, pooling at the surface of the water. The faintest touch of lips, dry and soft and warm.

He tastes like peaches.

(“Remember?”

They laugh, quiet giggles rippling across the pond.)

Here is another: the last time Taekwoon kisses Hakyeon, there is only blood and ash on his tongue.

 

\--

 

Really, the story begins and ends in the cracks between time. It begins and ends in whispered words, fleeting kisses, brushes of fingertips savored in moments that vanish from history as quickly as they are born.

(Because Taekwoon gazes into the eyes of a bratty prince and is immediately fascinated by the pure, haughty confidence in the set of his shoulders, the sneer of his voice, and the contemptible tilt in his chin.

Because Taekwoon observes him, wondering what it is like to be so sure of his princeliness, what it is like to stand above another and exude superiority with every movement and every word.

Because Taekwoon watches him silent with grief at the age of four and mature with kindness at the age of fifteen and elegant with grace at the age of twenty and before he knows it, he can’t look away anymore.)

The story itself is about family, honor, betrayal, and magic, but between the layers of revenge and fire and legend and smoke, something soft and fleeting blooms and doesn’t quite reach high enough to sprout before it is burnt down to its roots in a flurry of violent flames.

Really, the story begins and ends in a quiet promise made with newly-broken voices and hesitantly twined fingers, so painfully fragile it cannot even outlast a king (or a prince and a champion).

 

\--

 

Honor.

“A scar on my honor,” his father calls him. “Give it back.”

How is a boy to earn the respect of a kingdom?

He has nothing but his name.

He has nothing but his pride.

He has nothing but his sword.

He finds, at the age of eighteen, a sword is all you need.

 

“It’s stupid,” Hakyeon is saying, with a roll of his eyes. He throws an almond in his mouth, chewing furiously. “He doesn’t even need to prove himself, and yet he’s entered himself into this idiotic tournament.”

They are perched on the highest turrets overlooking the ring, sharing toasted nuts pilfered from the kitchens. It is early in the morning, far before the general public has begun to filter in, and the air is still cool against Taekwoon’s cheek.

He can see the small figures below, some polishing their armor, some stretching and conversing, and yet others already jumping up and down, swinging this way and that with blades that reflect the sun as they twist through the air. One woman dozes in the shade of a tree, her shield resting on the grass beside her. Or maybe she’s reading—Taekwoon can’t really see that far.

“It’s only the first day,” Taekwoon sighs. “He promised he would withdraw so he wouldn’t get in the way of someone talented winning, remember? Though, frankly, it’s preposterous to think the future king wouldn’t be able to find a single man in the kingdom more skilled than himself.”

“He works very hard on his swordsmanship,” Hakyeon says, leaning back on his palms.

“I’m aware,” Taekwoon says dryly, rubbing at the bruises Minhyuk had given him in a demonstration for a group of younger students just two days ago.

“He’s always going on about ‘Oh, Hakyeon, don’t you know the kings of old were all warriors? I’ll be the first warrior king in three hundred years!’” He gives another eye-roll, even harder than the last. “What an _idiot_.”

Taekwoon hides a chuckle in his palm, earning a glare from Hakyeon. They turn back to the ring to resume scanning for Minhyuk.

“That man has something on his arm,” Hakyeon points. He’s always had the sharpest vision. “It looks like a piece of cloth. What is that?”

Taekwoon squints, crunching down on an almond. “What are his colors?”

“A white crest on a blue field. An animal? I can’t see from here,” Hakyeon says. “The binding on his arm is yellow, though.”

“That’s Lord Cho’s second son. Must be a handkerchief from his betrothed,” Taekwoon shrugs. “I saw her give it to him before morning training yesterday.”

Hakyeon peers at him curiously. “Is that a common thing? Receiving handkerchiefs from lovers?”

“It’s become popular in recent years.” Taekwoon wipes his hands on his trousers, rising. His limbs are still gawky and long, but his body moves with the intuitive nimbleness of a talented fighter. “Supposed to be for luck.”

Hakyeon frowns. “Isn’t that unfair, then? You aren’t courting, and your father hasn’t promised you to anyone yet. Won’t they have an edge on you?”

Taekwoon snorts. “It’s just a symbol, you know.”

Hakyeon is quiet for a moment. Then, he begins to pick at his collar, right where it meets the base of his neck. The tip of his tongue peeks out from his mouth as he unlaces his jacket, holding the ribbon up triumphantly when he is done.

“That’s not a handkerchief,” Taekwoon points out.

“Shut up,” Hakyeon says good-naturedly. He rises to his feet, wrapping it around Taekwoon’s upper arm. It’s deep blue satin edged in gold lace and stands stark against the white shirt. He ties it into a snug knot, patting it when he finishes. “Bet you none of the others have kerchiefs in royal gold.”

“I should hope not,” Taekwoon deadpans. “It might skew your brother’s decision.”

Hakyeon laughs. His unlaced jacket flap open in the wind, and the creamy silk of his shirt ripples underneath. Taekwoon catches himself staring as the strands of his tousled hair kiss his bare forehead, winding free of the slick oil the maids had worked into it earlier that morning.

“Here,” Hakyeon says right before Taekwoon turns to leave. They are high enough that no one is watching. Eyes crinkled with a fond smile, he catches Taekwoon’s hand and draws him into a quick kiss. His mouth tastes of smoke and almonds. “For luck.”

 

In the arena, his armor is hot and stifling, his blade heavy and dull, and his own breath rings loud in his ears, louder even than the unforgiving crowd. It stinks of piss and sweat and fear and dry, dry earth.

He is afraid, but there is courage singing in his veins. He is young and headstrong and there is a ribbon on his arm and the ghost of a kiss on his lips and they make him brave.

How is a boy to earn the respect of a kingdom?

Here is how: he swings his sword.

He lifts it and swings as hard as he can at one man, and then the next and the next and the next and, when he can taste copper tang of victory on his tongue, he swings again to taste it once more.

“Champion!” the arena roars when he can no longer lift his arms. _Champion._

They beat their approval into his skull, rattling the brain between his ears as they cheer themselves hoarse, and Taekwoon is only eighteen years old when they learn to call his name with reverence and respect.

 

There is a celebration in his honor after the tournament. They light a torch in his honor, and it is not until he stares into the flames, lets their heat brush his skin, that he realizes the reality of his victory.

With blood still drying on his skin, he runs to the stables, snagging a brief moment of privacy with Hakyeon. His hands are still shaking with the buzz of victory as he peppers him with jubilant kisses, letting Hakyeon lick off the taste of blood and dust and fire between bursts of disbelieving laughter.

During dinner, the king sits at the head of the table, followed by the queen, the Grand Scholar, the current champion, and the two princes, Hakyeon on the left and Minhyuk on the right. Taekwoon sits next to Minhyuk, marveling at the way the candlelight fractures against the crystals hanging from the ceiling, at the way the room is cast in a warm glow from the gold tapestries and carpets and furnishings.

“To my new champion, Jung Taekwoon,” Minhyuk toasts at the start of the meal. “May his sword carve the way for a new generation of warrior kings.”

The wine is sweeter than any Taekwoon has tasted in all his life.

 

\--

 

Legend.

“The dragon kings will rule as long as the Fire burns,” Taekwoon’s father spits. “They step on my name and take my lands and bed my daughters and mock me to my face.”

How does a man kill a king?

“I will end the line of dragons,” his father seethes that night, after Taekwoon receives the crest of golden flames. “I will _burn_ it to the ground.”

Taekwoon is too busy marveling at the way it catches the sun to let the poison of his father’s rage seep into his veins. He does not voice how foolish the very idea sounds. After all, dragon kings are born and die of fire. The funeral pyre is simultaneously the death of an old king and the birth of a new one. As the legends say, from ashes, new life will always rise.

He pins the flames over his breast and, for the first time, finds something akin to pride burning underneath.

 

He does not realize the consequence of his victory until the next morning, when a messenger approaches him under the guise of sending him his training regimen under the champion, and instead leads him to the king’s quarters.

“Taekwoon,” Jungsu says with a neutral smile. “Lord Jung’s son, correct? Your father and I have known each other for a long time.”

Taekwoon kneels, heart nearly pounding out of his throat, and can barely stutter out the proper greeting.

“Rise,” he says, almost lazily, yet his eyes are sharp and judging. “I know that you have been good friends with my sons.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Taekwoon murmurs.

“I also know that you have a special relationship with the second prince.”

Taekwoon’s blood runs cold.

“Let me tell you a story,” Jungsu says, and when he leans forward, there is none of the laziness left. “It is a story that children learn in the castle when they are young. I am sure you have heard it before in some form or another.”

When he is finished, he says, “I know that you have been good friends with my sons. However, the nature of your position dictates that you can only devote yourself to one prince. Which one will you choose?”

Taekwoon thinks of the sweet wine from the night before, of the golden pin still burning on his chest, of hushed kisses and ripe peaches and lily ponds and silver moonlight, of his father’s tortured voice saying, over and over, _My honor. Give it back._

He thinks of all these things and, when he answers, he thinks he can still keep both princes in his heart. A secret, if you will.

He does not realize until much later that he is a fool.

 

Jungsu’s champion, Ryeowook, is soft-spoken and hard-eyed. He has a face worn with sun and weather and time, yet he looks much younger than the king. There is a long scar that snakes from the back of his hand up the length of his arm, stretching the skin taut around it. Sometimes, he rubs it absently, trailing his thumb from his wrist to his inner elbow, deep in thought.

The one time Taekwoon asks about it, he says, with a vague smile, “I received it from a student of mine not long ago.”

He treats Taekwoon fairly, with blunt criticism and accurate praise, and for this, Taekwoon is grateful. They train hard, leaving Taekwoon with new bruises and sore muscles every day. He learns a full range of lessons, from how to speak to his soldiers to how to kill a demon.

“It has been five hundred years,” Ryeowook concedes when Taekwoon asks why the latter skill is necessary. “But one day, the gate will break. Your duty is not to fight demons, but to pass on this knowledge to the next champion. We no longer exist to rally troops like times past, but to reinforce the kingdom’s love for its king.”

His expression is melancholy, almost sad, and it strikes Taekwoon that they are out of place, soldiers without war.

“We are relics,” Ryeowook agrees. “But we are not yet forgotten.”

Sometimes, he lets Taekwoon hold his golden sword. It is forged from steel, coated in gold and magic. It was a gift from the last dragon itself, and they say the first king was still holding it in his hand when he died on the battlefield. His firstborn son picked it up when the flames finally diminished, after nine days and nine nights, and it was as cool as the morning dew that coated the trampled grass of the battlefield. They say it only grows hot upon contact with demon flesh, and in five hundred years, it has never been warm to the touch.

Taekwoon traces the round pommel with gentle fingers and imagines he can feel the centuries of history under his skin. There is blood and gold and magic imbued in its very being, and its power is intoxicating. He may be a bastard, but Taekwoon lets himself think that with just a sword—with just _this_ sword—he might bring honor to his father's name.

 

“I haven’t seen you with Hakyeon lately,” Minhyuk says carefully once, mere months after the tournament.

They are wandering in the courtyard nearest the palace’s largest training yard after a bout of sparring. It is a rare moment of respite, and Taekwoon treasures it as a gem in the tumult of responsibilities that have come to overrun his life. Minhyuk idly runs his palms over the grass, crushing blades with his thumb and forefinger, and he looks radiant—kingly—despite the dark bruises under his eyes.

Taekwoon swallows thickly, picking at a daisy. “I spoke with your father. He said Hakyeon would be busy for a while. I have not forgotten him; don’t worry.”

Minhyuk studies him for a long time, and Taekwoon shifts uncomfortably under his scrutinizing stare. Finally, he says, “I see,” and never mentions it again.

 

The seasons shift and the pond freezes over and the moon rises earlier than ever, bright silver in the winter sky.

Taekwoon takes to hiding his hands deep in his cloak as he trudges around the palace, concealing the ribbon around his wrist from view.

Once, a hand catches at his arm and, before he can wrench it back, jerks it free of his pockets. Hakyeon comes up short, staring at the scrap of cloth.

Finally, he says, in a quiet, quiet voice, “Can we talk?”

It is the first time in five months that Taekwoon has touched him, and he feels a tingle where their hands meet. He is feverish and melting with longing, but he can only nod, tongue thick in his mouth.

Under the bare branches of his mother’s peach trees, Hakyeon speaks in measured words, each one tearing a new hole in Taekwoon’s skin until he feels bloody and raw, the breath rising in his chest in quick sobs.

“I am sorry.” Hakyeon’s eyes are flat. “I do not love you anymore.”

 

In the stories, there is always a price. A favor for a secret. A gift for a kiss. A life for a fire.

One prince for another.

Love for honor.

They say that all legends hold a grain of truth.

(And in the time in between, words slip into nothingness and promises crumble to dust. Beneath the peach trees, the pond is silent.)

 

\--

 

Taekwoon has known Minhyuk for more than half his life, yet serving under the crown prince is exhilarating in a way that he has never known. Minhyuk is sharp-witted. Minhyuk is boisterous. Minhyuk is well-spoken, commanding, and fills an empty place in Taekwoon’s chest that once held moonlight and lilies and the taste of ripe peaches.

“Don’t you know,” Minhyuk will start, a fire in his eyes, and Taekwoon will listen with rapt attention. “Don’t you know, before the War of the Two Kings, there were big ships that sailed across the ocean and found other lands with people living in them? There is a world beyond ours, Taekwoon, and I will find it again.”

Taekwoon feels devotion building in his bones, not quite the quiet, heart-pulling affection he had felt for Hakyeon, but a deep, all-encompassing admiration, and he lets it grow until he can think of nothing else.

“You will serve a great king,” Ryeowook tells him. “Give your entire heart to him, and you will be content.”

Taekwoon believes him, and it is easy to follow the overwhelming beacon that is his drive, his energy, and his passion. He leads a revolution; it is clear he wants to change the kingdom, that he wants his name to blaze through the annals for centuries to come, and Taekwoon loves him for it.

 

Revolution arrives, but not in the way that Taekwoon expects.

It is a cold spring morning, and he is waiting before Ryeowook’s rooms, because the champion values punctuality and he has arrived extremely early. As he idles by the door, tangling his fingers together, he hears a short shout inside, followed by a loud crash.

Ryeowook normally requires him to knock before entering, but he feels the situation sounds urgent enough that he should be allowed to walk in. Thus, he is not prepared to recognize the other figure in the room, currently standing over a mess of fallen papers and an overturned chair.

“Hakyeon,” he says faintly, and the other man turns pale as their eyes meet.

Ryeowook frowns, rising from his seat. “Taekwoon, you should have knocked.”

“I’m sorry. I heard the noise, and thought you might have required some assistance,” he says, eyes still locked on Hakyeon.

It’s been two years since he first pinned the golden fire on his breast, and it now seems to burn a hole through his heart.

“You should not have come in,” Ryeowook sighs, leaning back and rubbing his face wearily.

“Why is he here?” Taekwoon asks, watching as Hakyeon’s hackles rise.

“I can hear you,” he says, sounding every bit as princely as he had when he was child, threatening Taekwoon with a whipping for stealing peaches from his mother’s gardens. “You may address me directly, or not speak at all.”

“It’s too early in the morning for this,” Ryeowook says, taking a long draught of wine.

“What are you doing here?” Taekwoon demands, ignoring him. “You know Ryeowook?”

“Do I know my own father’s champion?” Hakyeon rolls his eyes. “Where do you think I’d been learning swordsmanship all these years? From the king himself?”

Taekwoon gapes. “And you never told me?”

“It was a secret!” Hakyeon hisses. “And you serve my brother now. Do you really think I would let such incriminating information slip to such a direct link to the king?”

“You thought I would tell him?” Taekwoon says, and he feels something sore shrink in his heart.

Hakyeon falters.

They are interrupted as Ryeowook stands with a choking noise. Hakyeon’s eyes widen with alarm as he claws at his throat, face turning purple. He stumbles three steps, fingers digging into his own skin until he draws blood.

Taekwoon steps forward to catch him, crying, “Master!” at the same time Hakyeon raises his voice and shouts, “Treason! Send for the king!”

The doors open, and two armed men clad in black rush inside, having clearly been waiting outside for signs of a struggle to commence.

Taekwoon sets Ryeowook down on the ground, drawing his sword from his hip, and fends off the first swing of knives as one of the assassins barrels towards him, clearly aiming for the fallen champion.

The confined space limits his reach, but Taekwoon quickly dispatches of the man, turning to see Hakyeon has neatly gutted the second with his own knife. He stands, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and his eyes flicker down to the golden sword in Taekwoon’s hand.

“Pulse,” he chokes out, already stumbling forward to kneel at Ryeowook’s side.

After a moment, he grimaces and shakes his head. Taekwoon resists the urge to heave as he takes in the sight of his mentor lying on the floor with a face swollen from poison and a neck bloody from his own fingers.

“They weren’t expecting you here so early. They would have brought more men,” Hakyeon says. “The wine was clearly meant to disable the two of us before they came in to finish the job.”

“What motive would they have to kill—?” Taekwoon falters.

“The throne,” Hakyeon says grimly, and Taekwoon cannot tell if he has deduced this from the struggle or from prior information. “‘From ashes, new life will rise.’ This is an attempt to finish the royal line.”

“You go warn the king,” Taekwoon says. “I need to tell Minhyuk.”

Hakyeon bites down on his lower lip, and Taekwoon still knows him well enough to see the tremble in his shoulders before he steels himself, hand tightening around the knife in his hands. Taekwoon leaves as he walks woodenly to back to the dead assassin, rummaging around the body to find a sword.

He runs down the hall, shouting, “Treason!” as loudly as his lungs will allow. Some react immediately with panicked faces; others only stop and stare. He has no time to waste, and he does not wait for anyone.

When he reaches Minhyuk’s chambers, he flings the door open. The antechamber is empty.

“Minhyuk!” he shouts. “Where are you?”

“Bedroom,” comes the muffled reply, even and unruffled.

Taekwoon allows himself to slow down. He walks towards the door, opening it, and blinks when he sees that Minhyuk is not alone.

“Your father asked to see me this morning,” Minhyuk says, sounding exasperated. “I told you to knock.”

“I’m sorry,” Taekwoon says, “But there’s been an act of treason against the king.”

Taekwoon’s father rises sharply from his chair.

Minhyuk pales. “What—”

It is not until his father is an arms length away that Taekwoon realizes his expression is strangely sad.

“I’m sorry, Taekwoon,” he says, and there is real sorrow in his voice when he steps forward with one arm outreached in an embrace and the other sliding a knife into his stomach. He takes the golden sword from Taekwoon’s hand, slack with surprise, and kicks him to the ground, driving the sword straight through his body, into the carpet.

The pain comes late, white-hot and sharp, and he slumps down, struggling to stay conscious.

“Taekwoon!” Minhyuk shouts, half-rising before he falls back heavily into his chair. With a gasp, he slumps, eyes uncomprehending for a brief moment. “Lord Jung! What have you done to me?”

“Just a drop of hemlock in the wine,” he says, kneeling to clean the knife on Taekwoon’s shirt.

“No,” Taekwoon manages to gasp.

He stares helplessly as his father stalks towards the crown prince, brandishing his sword.

“No,” he tries to say again. He tries to rise, but he is pinned to the floor by his own sword. His fingers scrabble at the blade, comes away slick with blood.

“You’re just a boy,” his father says, almost mournfully, “but it must be done. The line of dragons must end.”

 

How does a man kill a king?

Here is how: he swings his sword.

He lifts it and swings as hard as he can until the prince is nothing but shattered bones, clouded eyes, and red, red blood.

 

When it is finished, he returns to Taekwoon’s side, grasping at the sword in his son’s belly.

“Father,” Taekwoon says, voice faint. The world has gone soft, and he feels as if he is floating in warm water. The shock is distant, but it presses down in his brain and chokes at his throat. “No—”

“Quiet,” his father shushes him. He brushes away Taekwoon’s fingers, weak with blood loss.

There are footsteps pounding up the stairs, down the hall, and Taekwoon’s father breathes with heavy breaths, the strain of hefting his sword still showing in the beads of perspiration on his brow, making his hair hang limp in his face.

“Listen, Taekwoon,” he says in a low, urgent voice. “When they come through the door, I will pull out this sword. If they are my men, I will staunch the blood and tell them you were injured trying to help me restrain the prince. You must not say otherwise, or they will kill you too. If they are the king’s men,” he hesitates, brief fear flickering through his ashen face. He swallows. “If they are the king’s men, you will tell them the truth.”

The door opens.

Taekwoon cannot see the men pouring in, but he hears them, the shouts, the clanking armor, the boots against the marble, and he can see his father’s eyes grow the slightest bit wider.

 _Who are they?_ he wants to ask his father, but his head feels muddy and thick, and no sound will come out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” his father whispers, his voice so quiet it is nearly imperceptible, and with the force of a conviction that is not quite anger, he plunges the sword into Taekwoon’s gut again.

The last thing Taekwoon sees before he falls unconscious is the head of an axe rising to impale itself in his father’s back.

The palace quakes with raging fire and the sky chokes on thick ash and Taekwoon is only twenty years old when they learn to call his name with hatred and grief.

 

There is a ceremony. Taekwoon is confined to his rooms, guards lining his doors. He cannot see the stony set of Hakyeon’s face, but he knows how it goes.

The mourners’ robes are white.

There is one casket.

It is closed.

They don’t light a pyre, because only kings may rest in dragon’s breath.

 

\--

 

Exile is quiet. The king does not make a public spectacle of the once-champion. His only remaining son would never forgive him.

“Back straight, child,” his mother murmurs as they ride out in the dead of the night, flanked by grim-faced soldiers.

Taekwoon bites back the bitter bile in his throat. It is all rather unfair; his father had died on the spot, his blood mingled with that of the crown prince's on the palace floor. All in all, he had not taken a single step to death. There was no pain, no guilt, no regret. His mother, though, must ride for ten days to reach hers.

As they ride under the gate, his father’s head stares down from the ramparts with milky eyes.

There are words that catch in Taekwoon’s throat, and he mouths them with secret reverence under his father’s gaze. They fall, unheard, to the cold cobblestones, and Taekwoon never says them again.

 

Eunkwang’s letter reaches them five days’ ride from the palace. They are nearly to the mountains when the courier catches him outside a small inn.

_I understand these are trying times for your mother and you, and my brother and I formally extend an invitation for you to stay on our estate for as long as you would like after the ceremony. In the case that you do not, please know that our household is at your service anytime you wish to come. I am sorry I could not be with you in person through this time of grief, my friend._

“They understand. You were merely the victim of circumstance,” Lord Seo reassures him when Taekwoon arrives five days later, shying away from the household staff.

He looks a right mess with his wide, fearful eyes and ragged, unwashed hair. His mother, in contrast, is as put together as she can muster, all gracious smiles and demur manners.

“Thank you so much for your generosity,” she murmurs with a perfect curtsy, and Lord Seo just shakes his head.

“Our families have been friends for so long. It is to be expected, madam.”

The executioner stands quietly to the side. He is long-limbed and somber, with a soft mouth and large, weary eyes. He had respectfully ridden in the back of the group the entire journey, and yet Taekwoon cannot find it in himself to be grateful.

His mother takes her time bathing in rosewater, maids weaving her best pearls through her hair. She wears gold on her neck and wrists and fine silks that rustle as she walks to her last meal.

“This is the privilege of a champion’s mother,” she says to Taekwoon with an ironic tilt of the lips.

When she finishes the last bite of food, she grasps the cup of hemlock-laced wine in one hand, reaching out with the other to cradle Taekwoon’s face fondly.

“Serve your king well, my sweet son. Not like your foolish father,” she whispers, and then she drinks.

They hold a ceremony, and it is the first time Taekwoon sees a sea burial firsthand. Nevertheless, his mother has told him countless times how it goes.

The mourners’ robes are white.

There is a single boat, lined with fresh flowers and vines.

They do not light a fire, but watch as she drifts into the horizon.

 _The ocean is my home_ , his mother had once told him, when he was still small enough to be rocked in her arms. _It is where I was born, and it is where I will go when I die._

Taekwoon does not remember anything but the palace and the lake and the peaches and the pond, and in that moment, he knows that the sea is not his home.

 

\--

 

They say that from ashes, new life will always rise.

He builds a life as a mercenary and slowly, slowly, his face begins to fade from memory and people do not look at him with fear, disgust, admiration, or horror. Instead, they look in his direction and stare through his body and he eases into a life without honor, without fame, without pride, without anything, really, but himself.

Before, he had his prince and his sword and his honor and his pride. Before that, he had Hakyeon. Before that, he had his mother and his father and his sisters. And before that, he had nothing, really, but himself and a torn dress that was once the color of buttercups.

And so he is content.

He has not dreamed of Hakyeon’s face (his mouth, his eyes, his hair, his hands) for years when the king has died. He is far, far across the kingdom, and he never hears the news until after the ceremony has finished. Nevertheless, he knows how it goes.

The mourners’ robes are black.

There is one casket.

It is open.

They light a pyre, because only kings may rest in dragon’s breath.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope that explained a lot of things? anyway so i made minhyuk and hakyeon twins....i guess their birthday is the same as hakyeon's? also this entire flashback is very structured around hakyeon bc taek obviously is very fixated with him for a lot of reasons including but not limited to love. the other members will all play very important roles in the story, but for now we'll start with neo.
> 
> also i'm sorry but i won't be keeping this update schedule. lmao i definitely can't write 8-10k in a week, but i had a lot of this chapter written before i published, and i really wanted to clarify all the questions from last chapter.


	3. The Marble Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the radio silence! i've been busy getting ready to go back to school for summer classes and visiting relatives, and this chapter was really hard to write for some reason. it's really dialogue-heavy...
> 
> also idk how obvious this was but taek has hyde hair right now because he was too busy angsting in the middle of the woods to cut his hair.

Jaehwan is waiting alone outside Hakyeon’s door. He looks up as Taekwoon walks out.

“You’re here to show me to my rooms?” Taekwoon sighs. “Isn’t this task a bit too menial for the Grand Scholar?”

“I dismissed the manservant.” Jaehwan purses his lips. “I wanted to speak to you. Somewhere more private, if you will.” He directs a pointed glance towards the guards lining the halls.

“My rooms, then?”

Jaehwan nods sharply, and Taekwoon falls into pace behind him, even though he knows the palace like the back of his hand, having run through the stone corridors hundreds of times in his childhood. They walk through the south wing, from the king’s chambers into the quiet halls that once belonged to the former queen.

“So Hakyeon would have me housed in his dead mother’s chambers,” Taekwoon remarks, grimacing.

“No need to worry about outdated furnishings,” Jaehwan says. “Hakyeon resided in his mother’s quarters up until his father’s death.”

Taekwoon blinks. “Hakyeon?”

“Yes, Hakyeon.” Jaehwan shoots him an irritated glance over his shoulder. “I cannot imagine anyone else would receive the king’s permission to live in his dead wife’s rooms.”

Taekwoon shakes his head. “No, not that. You still call him by his surname. Not ‘His Majesty.’”

Jaehwan is quiet for a long moment. “Yes, well, we _have_ been friends for a long time. Habit, I suppose.”

 

The inside of the queen’s chambers is tastefully decorated in deep blue.

“You said he lived here until he was crowned?”

“I did. What of it?”

“It’s still in his mother’s colors,” Taekwoon notes.

“Yes. He never took on the king’s red.”

Sunlight streams through open windows overlooking the gardens, fracturing through crystal and glass baubles hanging in the windows, strung together with bronze wire, and Taekwoon remembers these rooms were recently inhabited.

“The peaches should start ripening soon,” Jaehwan notes, looking out the window. Indeed, the trees were laden with the last of the soft pink blossoms, branches already heavy with fruit. He glances back towards Taekwoon. “We always used to steal from the queen’s gardens when we were children.”

Taekwoon leans on the sill next to him, back to the window. “What did you want to talk about?”

Jaehwan sighs, turning to face him. From a breast pocket hidden in the folds of his robes, he draws out the ceremonial knife Taekwoon had last seen in Sanghyuk’s belt. He shows the mangled pommel to Taekwoon, as if he would need to inspect the peach blossoms to identify the weapon.

“You wanted to know why I gave this to the knights,” Jaehwan says in a clipped voice. “It was not a secret, but I suspected you would not want to hear the answer while others were listening.”

“That belongs to Hakyeon.”

“It belongs to the late queen. It should have gone in the casket with her and her other valued treasures, but you stole it to give to Hakyeon,” Jaehwan corrects.

Taekwoon stiffens. That bit of information had been a secret once.

“I know what it is,” Jaehwan says. “Hakyeon instructed me to give it to the knights. It was a test, of sorts. To see if you would remember.”

“Of course I remember,” Taekwoon says, voice slightly hoarse. “How could I forget?”

Jaehwan’s mouth turns down at the corners, twisting as he turns the knife over in his hands.

“I advise you not to entertain any hopes because of this,” he starts, somewhat cautiously.

“Hopes,” Taekwoon repeats, biting off the word viciously. “He doesn’t need to worry; I’ve long since stopped hoping we could resume as we had been before.”

“Not only that,” Jaehwan says. He takes a deep breath, his frown growing. “There was more to Hakyeon’s instructions. I was told to return the knife to you. He thought you would understand, but it’s clear you don’t. You are still only concerned with your romantic relations from your youth, and you are blind to what he is working towards.”

Taekwoon opens his mouth to protest, but Jaehwan cuts him off with a raised palm.

“The meaning is clear, Taekwoon. You should know best what this knife represents to him. It is something he has held dear not only because he felt it made him equal to his brother; he has kept it so long because he received it from _you_.”

Taekwoon struggles to keep the shock from his face. He had known, but the knowledge had manifested in his mind the way broad abstractions gradually form, barely breaching the surface of consciousness. Hearing it spoken aloud only sharpens the loss of what they had once held between them.

“You were never a champion or a knight to him, Taekwoon, and he wants to change that now. He is a different man, and you must recognize him for all that he has become. He is not a lover or a second son or the crown prince, and he is not a dragon, no matter what the legends say. He is a _king_ , and more than anything else, he needs your support as a champion, Taekwoon. You were the strongest man in the kingdom, and he needs such a figure to wield his sword now.”

Jaehwan offers him the knife, and Taekwoon stills as he realizes the significance of his next actions. He can accept the knife and discard the resilient seed of fondness that is still nestled firmly somewhere deep in his body, or he can refuse it and fail Hakyeon in his greatest time of need. He knows, logically, the decision he should make, and yet he hesitates, not quite ready to move.

His mind cannot help but think, _Is this a test, too?_

He stares into Jaehwan’s eyes and finds he can barely see any of the loud, impulsive boy who had once romped in the queen’s gardens with him. He looks back, gaze flinty and tight, and Taekwoon almost sees a stranger.

“Let me ask you something,” Taekwoon says slowly. “I asked Sanghyuk one night, and he gave me quite a firm answer. What do you think of Hakyeon? As a king, and as a man.”

“He is extraordinary,” Jaehwan says with the surety of one speaking undeniable truths, “There are some aspects left of the kind, young prince that he once was, but they have grown to fit the king that he has become. It’s true I am loyal partly because he is my longtime friend, but only because I grew to love and follow him long before he became the crown prince.”

He seizes Taekwoon’s arm, holding it loosely with one hand as he sets the knife down with the other. With a sharp look to prevent him from twisting out of his grip, he slowly pushes Taekwoon’s sleeve up to expose the threadbare blue ribbon tied in loops around his wrist. The satin fabric is stained and thin and the gold lace trim has long since crumbled, but the knot is tight enough that Taekwoon would have to sever the ribbon to remove it from his body.

“I suspect you are the same,” Jaehwan says in a softer voice. “He is easy to love, is he not?”

Taekwoon drops his eyes, looking down at his wrist in Jaehwan’s hand. Finally, he pulls away, tucking the ribbon away from view again.

“What is it he wants from me, exactly?”

“The demons are coming,” says Jaehwan, “and they move quickly. You are the only man alive who knows how to slay a demon now, and he is a young king. The people will place their faith in him if they know he has a strong champion by his side. You were taught to love a king, once. Could you not do it again?”

The gold knife cuts shards of sunlight on Jaehwan’s face as he stares up with searching eyes, digging for an answer.

Taekwoon breaks his gaze, picking up the knife from the table. His knuckles are white as he lowers his hands to his sides.

“First,” he says quietly, “I would like to be moved to a room near the soldiers’ barracks.”

Jaehwan smiles thinly.

“Good. You pass.”

 

\--

 

It has been over a year, but Taekwoon has walked through the nightmares enough times to remember each step and every word with unfailing precision.

They always begin with a garden bathed in moonlight.

He sits in a tree with bare branches, peering up into the sky as it slowly descends, a smooth darkness that will most certainly crush them when it finally reaches the earth.

Beneath the tree, there is a pond with lilies floating on its surface. They are luminous in the darkness, glowing brighter and brighter until they are brilliant silver. As abruptly as it had appeared, the light dies away and the petals wilt and shrivel away into the water.

He reaches down to touch the surface of the water, and as soon as he moves, the the world falls away and he is standing over the water, staring at a perfect reflection of the moon. He can feel a breath on his neck, the memory of a touch lingering on his skin, but when he turns, there is nothing but darkness threatening to suffocate him. As he begins to panic, turning this way and that to chase the ghosts on his periphery, the water splits and the moon shatters as a creature breaks the surface, wet scales glinting.

It is a dragon, and its eyes are closed as it brings its snout to rest on Taekwoon’s brow, breathing gentle, warm breath over his face. It smells like wood and smoke and fire.

Taekwoon wakes with a gasp, sweat painting his brow.

A knock sounds on the door, and he tenses involuntarily. Forcing himself to settle back onto the bed, he eases his breathing before calling out.

“Who is it?”

“A message from the king, sir.”

Taekwoon opens the door to a boy in scholars’ yellow, tied at the waist with white.

“An apprentice, boy?” Taekwoon asks, recognizing the color from Jaehwan’s robes.

“Yes, sir,” the boy murmurs.

He holds out a letter with the royal seal pressed into blue wax, identical to the one Taekwoon had received on his summons.

“Wait,” Taekwoon says before he can leave.

The boy jumps, but he stays rooted where he stands, arms stiff at his sides.

“I’ll pay you in copper if you tell me who really sent this letter,” Taekwoon says.

The boy’s eyes are wide as he turns back. He bites his lip, staring at Taekwoon for a second.

“May I see the coppers first?” he finally says, dropping his gaze as if ashamed.

“Fine,” Taekwoon concedes.

He turns back to find his purse on the table by his bedside, digging about for a sufficient amount of coin to pay him. When he turns back, the doorway is empty.

 

The next morning, Taekwoon rises before the sun. The room they have given him is simple and plain, secluded in a corner of the east wing, far from Hakyeon and the rest. It is befitting his rank, but the lack of furnishings clearly indicates a lack of prior use.

He spends a while composing a note to Wonsik that mostly consists of a map of the palace and instructions on where to meet him when he wakes. Outside, the hall is still, and only the trickle of sunrise creeps with his quiet footsteps as he glides out, the note in his hand.

The training yard is silent when he enters, still untouched by the sun. He finds a stable boy changing the water for the horses and sends him off with the letter before starting his morning routine, stretching through a light set of forms and repeating the positions like a slow dance.

When he returns to his rooms an hour later, he finds a platter of bread, fruits, and sweetmeats on the desk by his window. He eats overlooking the eastern courtyards, which open into the golden gates to the city. Then, he returns to the yard with his sword to sharpen and wipe down the blade methodically as he watches the glint of the morning sun flash in its surface. There are a few early risers wandering into the yard, but they pay no attention to the scrape of the whetstone.

Afterwards, he rises and strolls around the outer ring of the yard until he spots a crumbling section, half-obscured by hanging vines, about three quarters up the stone wall. Walking around to the backside, he climbs up and sits among the vines, letting their shadows obscure him as he watches the king’s guard arrive.

He is pleased to see Wonsik among the first to arrive, albeit somewhat bewildered. However, he soon finds a familiar face, judging by the relaxed slump of his shoulders. When Taekwoon peers for a closer look, he recognizes Hongbin. They talk somewhat animatedly for a few minutes, and Hongbin begins to show him around the equipment and introduce him to a few more of the knights.

There is a grunt from behind him.

“You’re even quieter now than when you left.”

He looks to his side. The angles of Eunkwang’s face are sharper, his skin more weathered by the sun, but the disproportionately large grin he flashes is the same as ever.

“You’ve been talking to your brother,” Taekwoon says immediately.

“What, can I not correspond with my own blood?” Eunkwang swings a leg over the stone edge, sitting with his legs dangling down. When Taekwoon gives him a pointed look, he shrugs. “How did you know?”

“You’re not treating me like a stranger or a traitor to the crown. You must have been receiving constant news on my doings,” he says. “Also, he asked me to give you a letter when we left.”

“Indeed, your apprentice found me yesterday,” Eunkwang laughs. “And we all know the truth. Jaehwan looked up to you as an older brother. He is unsure how to approach you now that the both of you are older, and in such positions of power. As for Hakyeon, he has other personal reasons for treating you with distance.” Eunkwang raises an eyebrow.

So, they had all known, although no one ever said so aloud. Taekwoon shrugs, thinking of his conversation with Jaehwan. In the yard, the knights have begun practicing their forms.

“They are disciplined,” Taekwoon observes. “You have trained them well, though they are young.”

Eunkwang nods, face darkening for a moment. “Most of the Prince’s old guard was killed five years ago. Only the young recruits were left.”

“The two that were sent to fetch me,” Taekwoon says. “They were talented.”

“Hongbin and Sanghyuk.” Eunkwang sighs. “I’m sorry. Hakyeon handpicked them. You must have had quite a bit of trouble with Hongbin.”

“He has quite the grudge,” Taekwoon agrees.

“He was as you were when we were younger, in a way,” Eunkwang says. “Always chasing after glory. It’s due to his father, as you must know.” At Taekwoon’s blank stare, he frowns. “Did he not say?”

“He never spoke of himself while we were traveling,” Taekwoon says. “Who is his father?”

“His father was a former executioner,” Eunkwang says slowly. “When he was knighted, Hongbin was past the age of entrance at the academy. He managed to enter by some favor of the king, and improved at a rapid pace. He is quite brilliant, although his technique is a bit unorthodox.”

“An executioner,” Taekwoon says thoughtfully, thinking of the way Hongbin had fearlessly straddled the demon, swinging his sword two-handed, as if in a manic rage. “Yes. I see.”

“He has learned proper swordplay,” Eunkwang says, leaning forward to look down into the yard. After a moment, he points a finger at Hongbin’s small figure, perfectly executing his forms. “He has a bit of a temper, though.”

“Hm,” Taekwoon watches for two more positions, then lets his gaze roam. “And Sanghyuk?”

“A carpenter’s son,” Eunkwang says. “His father came into quite a bit of coin, so he sent his son to be a knight. Hakyeon personally recommended him to the guard a few months ago. Said he saw him at the academy and made his mind immediately. The boy is quite large, after all. With his talent, he is easily distinguishable in a crowd.”

“Shouldn’t you be training with them?” Taekwoon motions with his chin.

“Sometimes, it’s better to watch from where they cannot see.” Eunkwang smiles. “They act differently when they know their captain is around to needle them.”

Taekwoon laughs, thinking of peaceful days lounging in trees and shadows, watching Wonsik shoot arrow after arrow into a handmade target at the edge of their glade.

“Enough is enough, though,” Eunkwang says, rising to his feet. “I must join them eventually. Would you care to come with me? A show of good will, you could say, between old friends.”

Eunkwang’s eyes twinkle as he offers a hand up. Taekwoon takes it, hoisting himself to his feet. So they had been thinking the same thought.

“I do appreciate the offer,” he says, “but I have somewhere to be soon. I have left my apprentice with your knights, though. He is a skilled fighter and quite friendly.”

Eunkwang grins with understanding. “I see. Well then, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Shall we meet at the same time and place?”

Taekwoon nods and when Eunkwang is gone, he rises to see Jaehwan.

 

\--

 

The search for the Grand Scholar is short. Taekwoon finds him in the first place he looks, sitting behind mounds of books in the study of his apartments. He looks up in surprise when Taekwoon enters, as if he had not been made to wait in his antechamber before his presence was announced by Jaehwan’s attendant.

“Taekwoon,” he says, unhooking his golden spectacles from his nose. “What brings you here this morning?”

The attendant bows and shuffles out, closing the door behind his swirling robes. Taekwoon rolls his eyes.

“No need for the theatrics, Jaehwan,” he says, and the other man leans back behind his desk with a knowing smirk. Taekwoon holds up the letter he had received last night, blue seal broken. “Does Hakyeon know you use his seal to forge letters?”

“I had his permission to send this one,” Jaehwan says, waving his hand dismissively. “And how did you know it was not him?”

“I don’t appreciate being toyed with, Jaehwan,” Taekwoon growls, stalking forward and slamming the letter on the table. Jaehwan does not flinch. He waits expectantly until Taekwoon sighs, “Why would the king send a scholar-in-training to deliver his messages? Besides, you did not hear our conversation yesterday; the letter would have been much more impersonal if he had written it himself. This was quite the elaborate prank to test my wits.”

“You are wrong on three parts,” Jaehwan says, “I designed this trick to test both you and my newest apprentice. He is quite clever, isn’t he? Loyal, too. I taught him myself. He learns quickly.

“And you are mistaken in believing that I wrote it, or that I did not hear the details of your reunion with Hakyeon. He told me about it himself after we parted, and I instructed him on how to word the letter.”

He watches like a hawk as Taekwoon digests the last bit of information. It stings, knowing that Hakyeon has found someone else to confide in, even though Taekwoon had suspected as much the day before.

“Was it that much of a shock?” Jaehwan asks, and his tone is surprisingly softer. The smug smile fades. “You must know by now, Taekwoon, that it is impossible to keep secrets in a palace.”

Taekwoon clears his throat. “So? Did I pass last night’s test?”

Jaehwan studies him a little longer. He nods. “Yes. What a clever champion we have here, despite your hardheadedness.”

“Was that all you called me here for?” Taekwoon takes a step back. “To explain to me the mechanics of this small trick of yours?”

“Of course not. Take a seat,” Jaehwan motions to the couches to either side of his desk. “Now that we have determined that you and I have the same priorities, Hakyeon wishes to see you again.”

“I saw him just yesterday,” Taekwoon points out.

“More demons emerge from the gate every day,” Jaehwan counters. “He needs your counsel as soon as possible. He will send a messenger when he is ready.”

“And when will that be?”

“Why the rush? He will summon you when he is ready. Meanwhile, we can take some time to catch up, as old friends. We’ve changed—you’ve become quite the mountain man in appearances, and I’ve grown into a ruthless schemer,” he flashes a humorless smile, “but nevertheless, we have known each other for the better part of both our lives, and I would quite like to hear what you have done in the past five years.”

He picks up a pitcher as Taekwoon wanders to the couch, settling down on the soft cushions with faint discomfort. Procuring two cups, he pours out a measure of wine for the both of them.

Taekwoon accepts his with a nod, and Jaehwan graciously waits for him to raise it to his lips before taking a sip from his own cup.

“Rice wine from the eastern terraces,” Jaehwan says. “The best of last year’s crop.”

There’s a pause as Taekwoon drinks and Jaehwan raises an eyebrow. After a moment, Taekwoon realizes he is expected to compliment the drink in response to Jaehwan’s hospitality.

“This is good,” he says awkwardly.

Jaehwan snorts. “You sound like an idiot. Did Ryeowook teach you nothing about etiquette in two years?”

“He taught me, but I do not think I learned,” Taekwoon admits ruefully.

“I could’ve been fooled. You’ve regressed since you left.”

“I didn’t have much chance to practice good etiquette in the middle of the woods,” Taekwoon says. “And I didn’t think I would ever need it again. You’ll have to excuse me, for I’ve long forgotten how to speak in proper company.”

Jaehwan hoots with sharp laughter. The sound grates at Taekwoon’s ears.

“I did not think I would ever serve a king again, after what happened to Minhyuk.”

Jaehwan pauses for a moment, staring down at the table to catch his thoughts.

“I do not plan to apologize for the decisions I am forcing you to make,” he says almost defiantly, catching Taekwoon’s eye. “But I am sorry for not asking after your wellbeing, my friend. It’s been a long five years for you, too, and I regret not being able to provide more support during your hardships.”

He bites his lip, head sinking down, and the position brings a sudden flood of nostalgia that aches like a bruise. He does not look like a child—he is much too worn to look anything but old for his age—but his expression is one that Taekwoon has seen countless times, shy and repentant.

“It’s fine,” he says as gently as he can. “I know you could not have done much while Jungsu was alive. And I will not begrudge you for putting Hakyeon first,” he smiles, pained, “for I would do the same in any situation.”

Jaehwan is quiet. A furrow forms between his brows.

“I was not sure yesterday, whether or not you merely held bitter feelings from the past, but it seems you still—”

“Yes.” Taekwoon curls his fingers tighter around his cup.

“It would be easier to let go.”

“I would have done so long ago, if I could.”

Jaehwan frowns, and Taekwoon looks down to avoid seeing the pity and disapproval.

“Even after seven years?”

“What is seven years compared to a lifetime?”

“We are not so old, Taekwoon.”

“Can you really blame me?” Taekwoon says bitterly. “It is as you said; he is easy to love.”

Jaehwan looks away first.

“Am I cruel?”

Taekwoon blinks. “What?”

“Everything I do is deliberate. I do not speak thoughtlessly, Taekwoon. If my words hurt, they are meant to wound. If I overlook something, it is because I am ignoring it. Do you think that I am cruel?”

“I do not blame you.”

Jaehwan’s eyes widen in surprise.

“You are merely following what they have taught us since we were young. ‘Serve your king well. Give your entire heart to him, and you will be content.’ Do you think those words were cruel?”

There is no hesitation when Jaehwan replies, “Yes.”

“Maybe they were meant to manipulate, but they gave me purpose,” Taekwoon says softly. “They still do.”

“Taekwoon, nothing good will come of—”

“And yet I cannot leave. You do not wish me to leave. Hakyeon needs me.”

Jaehwan’s defeated look signals that he is correct.

“Then I will stay,” Taekwoon concludes.

They are silent for a long time, drinking wine and gazing at the table.

Finally, Taekwoon speaks. “That was a test too, am I right?”

Jaehwan’s mouth tightens.

“Did I pass?”

They do not speak again until the messenger arrives.

 

Hakyeon receives Taekwoon in his bedroom this time. His jacket is unlaced, the silk of his shirt light against the skin at the base of his throat. He makes no effort to stiffen his spine, though his posture is still straight. As he enters, Taekwoon becomes aware that he is being allowed this sight, a peace offering after the disaster of their last meeting.

“Hakyeon.” He says it cautiously, testing it on his tongue.

Hakyeon holds his gaze for a long moment, inscrutable and unmoving, before he nods. “Come in and shut the door.”

Taekwoon closes the door behind him.

“Sit.” There is a softness to Hakyeon’s mouth, not nearly a smile, but it is not the stony expression he had held the last time they spoke. He moves to pour some of the contents of a pitcher into a cup, holding it out to Taekwoon. “How are the mountain passes faring?”

“Alright.” Taekwoon takes the cup. It holds water, cold and fresh. Hakyeon’s smile grows a twitch wider when he drains it in one draught. He pours himself a second cup. “Seo is a fair lord. They’re more stable than the south, I presume.”

Hakyeon doesn’t respond to his prompt. Not yet. “You brought back an apprentice, I saw.”

“I did.” Taekwoon takes another sip of water. “A boy from a village by the seaside. He was one of the previous Lord Seo’s wards. A good fighter. He’s older than the youngest knight in your guard.” He raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I had no choice,” Hakyeon sighs. “Too many good soldiers were killed five years ago. Sanghyuk is a boy, but he shows potential.”

“Potential,” Taekwoon repeats, letting the skepticism bleed into his voice.

Hakyeon shrugs. “And there was a promise.”

“What promise?”

A sad smile. “A secret I kept to an old friend.” He pauses, reconsidering the statement. “Maybe not a friend.”

“So now you’re hiring based on favors,” Taekwoon remarks, letting the disapproval bleed into the words. Hakyeon frowns at the statement, eyebrows low and troubled.

“There are specific circumstances under which Sanghyuk was hired,” Hakyeon says shortly. “He is a good fighter, despite his nervous appearance.”

“Would you trust him with your life?”

Hakyeon scoffs, and the sound is bitter and old. “I trust no one with my life.”

“Some things have changed,” Taekwoon remarks, aloud this time. The statement is not without spite.

Hakyeon blinks, fixing him with a curious look. “Have you?”

Taekwoon does not answer, choosing instead to exhibit a bullheaded glare.

“I do not wish to fight,” Hakyeon sighs.

“Nor do I.”

“I know your loyalty, though.” A brief flutter of hope dampens with his next words: “Given that Jaehwan has sent you as I instructed, he finds you satisfactory.”

“Is this how we will play it? With forced distance?” Taekwoon demands.

“The distance isn’t forced,” Hakyeon says with a disapproving frown. “Only uncomfortable. It’s been seven years. We are no longer boys.”

“Yet you surround yourself with your childhood friends in positions of power.”

“Eunkwang proved himself to his peers, and my father chose Jaehwan.” Hakyeon grimaces. “Besides, I would have made the same decision in his place. It is wise to stay in your advisor’s confidences. My father merely learned from his own mistakes.”

“Is that why you chose me?”

“It is not.” Hakyeon leans back in his chair and sighs. “Don’t be like this. You know I could have elected Eunkwang myself.”

“And yet you choose to disobey the old king and call a traitor back to the capital.”

“I am the king now,” Hakyeon says, dangerously quiet. “And I will abide by tradition. You have not been ousted from your position and until then, you will stay.”

The implication sours in Taekwoon’s stomach.

“You brought me back so you could properly promote someone of your own choice.”

“I did not say that,” Hakyeon tells him evenly. “I will simply choose the strongest man in the kingdom.”

Taekwoon drains his cup again. He can’t tell if Hakyeon is lying.

“Besides, you do have other uses here,” Hakyeon continues. “You are aware that you alone hold the secrets passed from champion to champion. You know how to defeat a demon, and that has become valuable knowledge in recent days.”

“The secrets are recorded in the royal libraries,” Taekwoon says dryly.

“Only sworn members of the Order may access those secrets. Not even I can see them. You really think I would entrust my soldiers to Jaehwan to train? That is not his role in this palace.”

“And my role? You must know, I am no longer a knight.”

“You will be what I wish you to be.”

“I am a mercenary,” Taekwoon says, levelling a challenging stare. “An outcast, and nothing else.”

“You are my subject, first and foremost,” Hakyeon retorts, returning with a cool-headed gaze of his own. “And you will submit to my will.”

“And if I choose not to?”

“You will not.”

Taekwoon blinks. “How are you so certain?”

“Because you have not changed as much as you would like to think in these seven years, Taekwoon.” He sighs, lowering his eyes. “Some things I can see better than Jaehwan.”

Taekwoon closes his eyes as his stomach sinks. “So you knew.” This, more than anything else, feels like a betrayal.

“You’ve never been good at keeping secrets.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.” Hakyeon does not look sympathetic. He does not look uncomfortable. His expression is placid and neutral. It is not an expression one would use to speak to a former lover.

“I never planned to act on it.”

“I know that.”

“So what will you do about it?”

“I thought we should lay a few rules to our interactions,” Hakyeon says. “To lessen your discomfort in my presence.” The clean, clinical phrasing makes Taekwoon feel sick.

“What do you suggest?”

“For as long as you are in my service, I will not speak, touch, or treat you in any way that would suggest a return to the relationship we once had.” Hakyeon licks his lips.

 _I don’t want you to misunderstand_ , he means. Taekwoon scowls.

“What I’m saying, Taekwoon, is that I won’t manipulate you using your feelings. I promise, for the duration of your stay in this palace, may it be a month or a year or the rest of your life, I will not do anything to hurt you for what we once had. We are still old friends, Taekwoon. I don’t want you to suffer as my retainer. Will you accept these terms?”

“Yes.” Taekwoon accedes after a moment. “Thank you. Will there be anything else?”

“They have reported demons emerging from the gate in the south with more frequency by the day. Starting tomorrow morning, I would like you to begin teaching my soldiers how to fight against them. In the afternoons, you will report to me to see my plans for mobilizing the kingdom’s defense. I have need for the perspective of another man who has studied under Ryeowook.”

“I understand. Is that all?”

Hakyeon pauses. “Taekwoon, you don’t believe me when I say I still regard you as a friend.”

“You seem to be quite eager to discard everything from the past,” Taekwoon says honestly.

“Is that what you think?” Hakyeon assesses him thoughtfully. “Why?”

“You speak so coldly at times.” Taekwoon lets the softness of concern trickle back into his voice.

“The people expect a king to be detached,” Hakyeon points out.

“Was your brother ever cold, though? Grief and bias aside, we both know he would have made a fine king.”

“I never said that a king should be cold, only detached. Don’t tell me you didn’t worship him as a god.” There is no malice in Hakyeon’s tone. He does not reproach Taekwoon for breaching the subject. He has not forgotten, but five years is a long time, enough for a boy to grow into a man. “My brother was warm, that is true, but ruling was his birthright. I am not my brother. I have not discarded the past, and there are many I cannot forgive, but I will do anything that is right for this kingdom.”

Taekwoon sees it, then. He sees the admiration, the wholehearted devotion that had lit Sanghyuk and Jaehwan’s eyes when they spoke of Hakyeon.

 _You are loved_ , he aches to tell Hakyeon. _The people love you. You are a king like no other in five hundred years._

“There is history in this palace,” Hakyeon says. “Whether it be between us or others who came before. The walls are stained with blood. Do not think that I have forgotten that my mother and brothers’ bones still lie within these grounds. There is a time I would have lost myself to vengeance, but I have a duty to the kingdom that takes precedence now.”

“Hakyeon,” Taekwoon begins, and he can feel himself giving in to the urge. He reaches across the table, nearly brushing the sleeve of Hakyeon’s shirt before the other man pulls away sharply.

“Please,” Hakyeon says, and though his voice is firm, Taekwoon can see the faint tremble of his fingers before he tucks his arm under the table. “If you would refrain from touching me as well. As I said, I have not forgotten.”

Taekwoon frowns. “You mean—”

“You were my friend, that is true,” Hakyeon continues. “But you must understand that I have not seen your face in five years, and,” he cuts off abruptly, biting his lip. “You look more and more like your father with age.” The air is heavy. “I am sorry. Please know that I hold no misconceptions towards your character.”

“I understand,” Taekwoon says with barely maintained composure. “You were a victim of tragedy as much as I was, if not more.”

“Thank you,” Hakyeon replies, and Taekwoon isn’t sure if it’s his imagination that he cuts the words off more shortly than before.

 

\--

 

The next morning, Taekwoon is sitting in the crumbling hole in the wall, observing the training yard again, when he hears Eunkwang climb up.

“You’re late.” Taekwoon says.

“I received a summons from the Grand Scholar. He told me to expect his presence here in a few hours. Observation, he called it.”

“Observation,” Taekwoon repeats dryly. “He’s making sure I don’t step out of line.”

“How went your talk with Hakyeon?”

“Where do you hear these things?” Taekwoon mutters, and Eunkwang only grins indulgently with no answer forthcoming.

“Everyone has their sources. These are the sort of things you learn to build in court. This place was a pit of snakes just a month ago. Hakyeon dismissed all his father’s retinue in favor of his own people right after his coronation.”

“And you?” Taekwoon raises an eyebrow. “The previous king promoted you, no?”

“You could say I was planted here prior to his taking the throne.” Eunkwang’s smile is more teeth than mirth.

“He is doing well at court.”

“He has had twenty-five years of training. It’s hard being a second prince, especially one who shared a womb with his elder brother. After the War of the Two Kings, no one is willing to trust the younger twin.”

Taekwoon’s hand drifts to the knife at his belt, the twisted golden handle concealed in layers of black cloth. “Yes, it is.”

“Are you ready to join them?” Eunkwang nods towards the soldiers. “We should be down soon.”

“You could go ahead,” Taekwoon starts, but Eunkwang shakes his head.

“They trust me. They’ll appreciate a show of friendship, remember?”

“Why do you try to help me so much?” Taekwoon asks. “You could be champion with a wave of Hakyeon’s hand.”

“I could not teach them how to slay a demon even if I wanted to,” Eunkwang reminds him. “Besides, Hakyeon wants to appoint his champion through legitimate means. You really think the people would unanimously approve of another knight as long as you were alive?”

“I am not popular with the people.”

“No,” Eunkwang agrees, “but you are the original, appointed by the crown prince. Even after death, Minhyuk holds power over the kingdom.”

 

When they walk onto the training field, Jaehwan is already standing silently to the side. He nods as they step onto the dirt, an acknowledgement of their arrival, but otherwise stays where he is, light yellow robes almost blindingly bright in the sunlight.

Despite Eunkwang’s purposefully loud laughter and convincing claps to the back, the knights still look wary as Taekwoon is introduced.

“The best fighter of our generation,” Eunkwang calls him. “He learned demon-slaying from the previous champion himself.”

Though Eunkwang is sincere, Taekwoon cannot help but feel mocked. He knows how he looks, with shaggy, unkempt hair and his chin beginning to prickle from neglecting to shave.

They doubt him, and they doubt his ability to lead. He does not blame them.

 “Master!” Wonsik interrupts and steps forward, the relief stark on his face. For a moment, Taekwoon is flooded with guilt at leaving his apprentice to his own devices for two whole days. “Have you come to teach us?”

Behind him, Hongbin looks as if he has tasted something sour.

“I have,” Taekwoon says. “Have you been training with them as I told you to?” He knows the answer, but he would rather no one knew of his hiding place for now.

“Of course. They are easy to get along with,” Wonsik says, smiling widely despite his obvious nerves.

“You did well, Wonsik,” Taekwoon tells him.

He tries to keep his face impassive as he leads the soldiers through their drills. Although they follow his orders and accept his advice, the silent glares and lack of verbal responses send a clear message: they are dissatisfied with Hakyeon’s choice.

“This is bad,” he mutters to Eunkwang as they supervise yet another set of forms.

Eunkwang frowns. “Yes. Perhaps we were too hasty to begin.”

“There is no time. The demons advance every day.”

They are interrupted when Hongbin lowers his sword. The yard quiets.

“Hongbin, is there a problem?” Eunkwang steps forward.

Hongbin chews his lip and frowns. He points at Taekwoon, scowling.

“This man is not qualified to be His Majesty’s champion.”

Someone in the back gasps, but the sound is hushed with a glance from Eunkwang. He turns back to face Hongbin.

“Is that judgment not His Majesty’s choice to make?”

More murmurs. Hongbin stutters. Taekwoon knows it will not satisfy him, but nevertheless, he silently thanks Eunkwang for trying.

“Yes, but I am concerned for His Majesty’s safety,” Hongbin blurts. “As well as his guard’s wellbeing. We cannot fight if we do not trust the man leading us.” The growing voices of assent indicate that Hongbin is not alone.

Eunkwang glances at Taekwoon, his frown deepening the lines around his mouth. They both know there is nothing Eunkwang can say to soothe the men’s minds.

Taekwoon steps forward, plucking Hongbin’s sword from the ground.

“Fine,” he says, raising his voice to address the entire guard. “Tell me what you want me to prove so you will accept me. You need not understand me or like me or even tolerate me, but we are not enemies. We serve the same purpose, and I need your cooperation on every front if we are to protect the king. Step forward and voice your complaints.”

For a long minute, silence settles like a thick blanket over the yard. When someone finally speaks, Taekwoon is not surprised to see it is Hongbin. Volatile, stubborn Hongbin. Sharp-tongued and loyal to a fault. Hongbin, whose anger and spite had slowly built through the space of their ten-day travel. Hongbin, who bitterly hates Taekwoon for his father’s crimes.

 _Hakyeon handpicked them._ Eunkwang’s voice reverberates in his head. He wonders exactly how far back Hakyeon had planned for this very confrontation.

“Sir, I don’t think you are suitable to be His Majesty’s champion,” Hongbin calls. He takes a step forward, then another, dust crunching under his boots. “You are truly strong, but there are other qualities of a leader that you lack. You don’t instill faith in us, and we are not compelled to follow someone other than our captain and our king.”

It’s a fair point, and Taekwoon can feel Jaehwan’s gaze burning into him.

He opens his mouth to speak, and his eyes are suddenly drawn to the wall above the yard, its shadow growing shorter in the morning sun. There is a faint twitch of the hanging vines, and his practiced eye catches on a glimmer of gold. With sudden clarity, he realizes the purpose of Jaehwan’s grabbing presence—to draw attention away from the other watcher. Surely the knights would not speak out of turn if they knew the king himself was watching.

 _This is another test_. His gaze roams the soldiers and finds Wonsik staring back with tense anticipation.

He swallows. “And if I disagree? How will you have me prove myself to you?”

Hongbin’s hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists.

 _He looks nervous_ , Taekwoon realizes.

“His Majesty abides by the law,” he says. “Therefore, there are only two ways a new champion may be instated.” He looks to Taekwoon for confirmation.

“That is correct,” Taekwoon replies. “There may be a new champion when the previous has been bested in battle or dead.”

His thoughts jump back to what Hakyeon had said the day before. He wonders if Hakyeon had said those words knowing the events to transpire now.

“Then,” Hongbin starts, voice shaking and throat bobbing. He knows the risk of his words, yet he speaks anyway. “Then, I would like you to prove that you are still the strongest man in the kingdom.”

Before Hongbin can finish his thought, before Eunkwang can interrupt, and before Jaehwan can make a suggestion, Taekwoon knows.

He thinks bitterly of almonds and smoke, sweat and dust, blood and wine. It has been seven years since he stood in the ring, and he still knows no other path to honor than the weight of steel in his hand. It has been seven years since he stood in the ring, and he wonders how they will call his name this time.

 

Wonsik finds him after he leaves the yard.

“Master!” he calls, running until he is abreast with Taekwoon. “Master, are you alright?”

“Not so loud,” Taekwoon murmurs. He eyes the footmen passing by.

“Master, I heard from the captain that you spoke with the king again yesterday.”

Taekwoon frowns. Eunkwang’s lips are too loose.

“Have you been having dreams again?”

Taekwoon purses his lips. “No.”

Wonsik frowns. “Master, please don’t lie. What did you dream about?”

“It was just the usual, nothing to worry about. I don’t—”

They are rounding the corner when Taekwoon hears his own name in a hushed whisper. He quickly grabs Wonsik by the arm, pulling him back and signaling him to stay quiet. As a credit to his training, Wonsik does not utter a sound as he slides back against the wall.

“I don’t think you understand what type of champion Taekwoon is.” Eunkwang says. “Or, what type he wishes to be. He doesn’t want your love or your devotion. He just wants your trust and cooperation. There’s a difference, you know.”

Taekwoon stills.

“He doesn’t care for us,” Hongbin says, voice flat.

Beside him, Wonsik’s face has gone pale.

“He doesn’t want to grow close to you,” Eunkwang corrects. “His goal, first and foremost, is to legitimize Hakyeon’s role as king.”

 _But Hakyeon will never think of himself as king_ , Taekwoon thinks bitterly. He will never think of himself as king because long ago, there was another crown prince, a true dragon and heir. Even now, he executes a laughingly elaborate plan just to instate another champion through proper channels.

“You are free to challenge him, but be warned that it is by the king’s orders that he train us all to kill demons.” Eunkwang’s words take on an authoritative tone. A warning. “You will learn from him, and that is not a suggestion.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Hongbin says, the displeasure clear in his voice. “I did not mean to disobey.”

There is another murmur, too low to hear, and the sound of footsteps fading away. Taekwoon and Wonsik straighten.

“Master,” Wonsik begins, just as Hongbin walks around the corner, a scowl on his face.

He stops short, and Taekwoon can see the moment he sees them, realizes that they have heard. He stalks forward, fire in his eyes.

“You heard.”

“I did.” Taekwoon stands his ground.

“I won’t apologize.”

“I will not ask you to.”

“Master,” Wonsik takes a half-step forward. “Do you need me to call someone?”

“Wonsik, don’t you dare,” Hongbin starts, but Taekwoon interrupts.

“No.” Taekwoon raises his hand. “Please give us a moment to talk alone. I will meet you in my chambers when I am done.”

Wonsik hesitates. Taekwoon can see that he thinks it will come to a fight. He is probably right, seeing the severity with which Hongbin seethes.

“Wonsik,” he says again, and he backs away, albeit reluctantly.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” Hongbin says, baring his teeth, “but I won’t acknowledge you unless you win properly in the tournament.”

“I know.” Taekwoon takes a tentative step closer. Hongbin backs away. “I just wanted to talk. I wanted to ask, what is it that attracts you to Hakyeon?”

“He is my king. Do I need any other reason to serve him?”

“Normally, no other, but I am not a fool. You are incredibly devoted. Why?”

“He gave me the chance to earn honor for myself and my name,” Hongbin says. “I will serve him and become a great man.”

“Honor,” Taekwoon says quietly, “is worthless.”

“Honor,” Hongbin growls, “is everything. You should know, bastard.”

“I know enough,” Taekwoon replies. “I know that honor is lost as quickly as it can be gained. I know that heroes only exist in stories, and that those who chase fairytales will always be disappointed. I know who you are, Hongbin, and who your father was. I know more than you think, in this palace.”

Hongbin stops short, the frown quickly blooming into fury. “You inquired after my family?”

“I know that your father was an executioner,” Taekwoon tells him. “I know that you gained title recently, and since then you have desperately tried to shed your roots.”

Hongbin barks with laughter, derisive and harsh. “Is that all? You know nothing. I am my father’s son, and that will never change. You’ve met him, and yet you see nothing of him in me? I’m quite disappointed, _champion_.”

He takes a step forward, and then another, until he stands nearly nose to nose with Taekwoon. He is no longer laughing when he speaks again, not even a smirk curling his mouth.

“I don’t trust you. You speak of loyalties now, but His Majesty underestimates the strength of blood ties. One day, you will betray him, and when that happens, I will be ready to kill you, just as my father killed your parents in the rebellion.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really wanted to get this up as soon as i could, so sorry for any typos you might find. i'll proofread again when it's not the middle of the night.
> 
> about the formatting of this fic!! next chapter will have more backstory, but from another character's pov! it's interesting to see things from other people's perspectives :)
> 
> also, idk if i ever properly mentioned this but i have a writing tumblr? the url's @heartsighcd. i haven't been using it, but after this chapter, i realize that it's kind of hard to get ahold of me when i haven't posted anything in a while, and i don't want to leave you in the dark the next time i take forever to update a fic. anyway even though i'm not active on it, i'll still answer if you send asks, so feel free to shoot me things you're confused abt/point out errors/whatever else you'd like.


	4. Mirror II: Hongbin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there is a LOT of discussion of gore/injury/death in this chapter. also internalized self-hate/repression of emotions and very brief dubcon/noncon? no sexual content but definitely not great stuff please be careful while reading.
> 
> there are chapter titles now! also holy crap this got long.

There is another story about another boy in another household, but really, all stories are just mirrors of one another. If you look closely, what appears to be extraneous is just another detail in a reflection too large to ever be perceived in its entirety.

Hongbin’s birthright—his family, his upbringing, his trade—is blood.

He is the second son of a lesser noble, but before that, he is the son of a man who wields an axe over a sword.

There is nothing he is more proud of than his name.

There is nothing he is more ashamed of than his pride.

At the age of twelve, Hongbin learns from his father the proper way to behead a man. There is no technique, only brute force. The hardest part is the first swing, which must be strong enough that any subsequent swings will only be to aid the victim along to peace.

He shows Hongbin the severed hair and sinew and bone, the pouring fresh blood, the ragged skin along the edge of the wound, and tells him, “This is your birthright.”

There is no glory in execution. There is only death.

 _The executioner’s second boy is pretty as a flower_ , they say when he is young. They are frightened, because he does not look like an executioner’s son.

They look at him as one looks at a virgin, a dove, or a white rose, and they are frightened because they know that one day, he will be stained with the blood of the basest of men, just as his father is stained.

They are frightened because when his hands are as stained as his father’s, he will still look like a flower, and they will be too distracted by the glow of his smile to see the swing of his axe.

Hongbin is not yet the second son of a lesser noble. He is the son of an executioner. He and his brother will carry on the family trade, so he must learn how to use the tools.

When the crown prince dies and his father is bestowed the title of baron for personally slaying his killer, Hongbin picks up a sword for the first time and never touches an axe again.

 _The baron’s son,_ they call him. _The baron’s son is as pretty as a flower._

A flower bathed in red, no matter how pretty, will never be white again.

Hongbin’s birthright is blood.

One day, just like his father, he will slay a traitor. One day, he will bury his blade in an unforgiving grave of flesh and bring honor to his name.

 

\--

 

There is a breath of silence as Taekwoon’s face goes ashen, and Hongbin can’t help the curl of satisfaction in his stomach.

“What did you say?” Taekwoon growls, each word broken and threatening. His eyes are alight with fire and anger, and his posture turns threatening as he reaches for Hongbin’s collar.

Hongbin swallows down the fear, rooting his feet where he stands. He will not be swayed by intimidation, and he will not be intimidated by this man.

He will stand his ground, because he knows, even if Taekwoon speaks the truth now, even if he sincerely believes he serves the king, there will come a time when he will seek to stain his hands with royal blood for his own gains. When that time comes, Hongbin will be ready.

“That man,” Taekwoon says. “That man was your father?”

“None other.” Hongbin fixes a sneer on his face, a slippery sneer that will slide right off if he does not hold it well. “He is the hero who killed the traitor.”

“He killed my mother, too.” Taekwoon’s eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second. “He rode with us beyond the northern passes to the coast so she could have a proper sea burial. He was respectful, I recall.”

“Don’t try to win me with your honeyed words. I am watching you, and I will be ready when you betray the king.”

Taekwoon does not fall back, but his eyes grow tired with sadness. “I will not betray the king.”

“You _will_ ,” Hongbin answers with fierce conviction. “It is in your blood.”

Sadness turns to pain. The corner of Taekwoon’s lip pulls down as if weighted with lead. Nausea and triumph mix in a maddening frenzy in Hongbin’s belly, and he cannot bring himself to smile anymore.

“It is your fate to inherit a traitor’s blood,” Hongbin tells him. “And you cannot escape fate.”

“If you think so highly of blood, then are you a killer as your father was?”

Hongbin grits his teeth, lets the pain ground him. “I will be whatever I need to be to serve the king.”

“Your father is an executioner.”

“He is a hero.”

“You may think yourself better,” Taekwoon says, eyes flashing, “but you and I are the same.” The words fall like fat drops of poison from his mouth. He sneers as Hongbin steps back once, twice. “You think you’re so much better, but you’re the same as I was back then, blinded with glory and greed.”

“I am nothing like you,” Hongbin spits and digs his heels into the ground, “you _snake_.”

Deep within his breast, a fire roars. Hongbin charges forward, fists raised in drunken, rash fury. Taekwoon easily dodges and grips his hand, twisting his arm and slamming him back face-first into the wall. He pins him down with a forearm to the back of his head, and Hongbin’s face flames with red shame as he struggles weakly.

“Don’t shout.” The proximity of Taekwoon’s voice makes his stomach sick. “If anyone finds you’ve attacked the champion, you’ll be thrown in prison.”

“You’re not the champion yet,” Hongbin hisses, but he knows better than to raise his voice.

The grip on his wrist tightens, twisting his arm almost to the point of breaking. He grits his teeth and swallows down the shriek clawing up his throat.

“You know nothing of the king,” he continues, voice harsh with contempt. “You know nothing of the two of us, and you have no right to accuse me of treason.”

“You think I don’t see it?” Hongbin spits, the words bitter on his tongue. “The way you look at the king—it’s so obvious. You couldn’t keep a secret here even if you tried.”

He refuses to break, thrashing as Taekwoon’s grip tightens. It happens in a flash; with a sudden squeeze, white-hot fire bursts along his shoulder, shoving a gasp of pain through his lips. Before Taekwoon can break his arm, they hear the sound of rapid footfalls pounding down the hall.

“Release him!”

The Grand Scholar strides forward, eyes blazing. Wonsik follows, pale-faced and tight-eyed.

Taekwoon’s grasp loosens, and Hongbin shakes him off.

“Taekwoon, do you mind explaining to me what is going on?” Jaehwan hisses, glancing between them. “I would appreciate if you would not cause a commotion in such a public area.”

“If you would like an explanation, you may ask the instigator,” Taekwoon says, brushing dust off of his trousers and straightening his shirt. He nods at Hongbin with maddening coolness. “This knight provoked me. I merely responded in kind.”

Jaehwan looks fit to burst, and Wonsik pales even more behind him.

“You would do well to speak with more respect toward your betters,” Taekwoon tells him coldly. “Now, if you would excuse me.”

Wonsik lays a hand on Hongbin’s shoulder before he can storm forward again.

“ _Stand down_ ,” Jaehwan tells him in a firm voice.

He stills and grips his hands in fists at his sides. “My apologies, Grand Scholar. I did not mean to cause a fuss.”

“I can guess what happened,” Jaehwan says dryly. “No need for explanations. Both of you are quite hotheaded.”

“I will go talk to my master,” Wonsik mumbles, but Jaehwan holds out a hand to stop him.

“I will go,” Jaehwan says. “This is a matter best discussed between old friends. He is too angry to listen to his student at the moment.”

Wonsik looks distressed, but he nods.

“He may bear his father’s blood, but he was always his mother’s son,” Jaehwan remarks.

Hongbin turns. “What makes you say so?”

“Not me,” Jaehwan gives him a strange look. “It was something the king used to always say, back when he was a prince.”

He walks away, yellow robes billowing behind him, leaving Wonsik and Hongbin in the empty hall.

Wonsik sighs. “You enjoy angering him, don’t you?”

“I do not take pleasure in angering people needlessly,” Hongbin tells him. “I have good reason to hate your master. His father killed the crown prince.”

“But he is not his father.” Wonsik peers at him closely. “You know that, don’t you?”

Hongbin looks away, scowling. “Such a thing makes no difference. All that matters is blood.”

 

\--

 

“Don’t let go of my hand.”

When Hongbin is five years old, his brother takes him to see a swordfight.

Their father does not come, citing a job scheduled for the same time. Their mother does not come either, as she has no interest in play-fights.

He clings to his brother’s hand as the sea of people push them into the stadium, the heat of their bodies clinging to his skin. They stand far from the ring, far enough for the fighters to look like tiny shining toy soldiers as they leap and whirl, showing off glittering swords and ornamental armor.

At the end, when one falls to his knees with dramatic twitches and cries of pain, the winner lifts his sword to the cheers of the crowd. In the bowl of the stadium, the sound echoes and builds like an earthquake, and Hongbin can feel his small knees shaking at the vibrations.

“I want to be a hero,” he says afterwards, excitement pushing the words out in a shout. “I want to be a knight when I grow up!”

“Don’t be stupid,” his brother tells him. “Father is not a nobleman. He is an executioner, and we will follow in his line of work.”

 

The first time he touches a bloody blade, Hongbin does not cry.

He is standing next to his father, before the block, before the sharp gazes of hundreds of eyes. The man lying below them, neck exposed, is a distinguished scholar with dozens of books to his name. He writes poetry, Hongbin later learns, about the bloom of flowers in spring.

He attempted to poison the king’s food, and now he is nothing but a criminal to be punished as an example to the rest of the kingdom.

“Do not close your eyes,” Hongbin’s father tells him before they walk up to the platform, before they come into view of the crowd. “Do not shed tears. Do not show any emotion, especially not sympathy. When we walk onto the stage, we are not men. We are tools that exist to carry out the king’s judgment. If they see that we are human, they will not know the fear that we are meant to instill.”

Hongbin puffs his chest for all his ten years and does not shed a single tear, not even when the spray of blood hits his shoes.

He knows his father is a kind and gentle man. He is soft-spoken and respectful and brings sweets for his children when he returns from business in the palace, and yet Hongbin feels a deep fear in his heart as he watches his father raise and swing, raise and swing, raise and swing.

He looks like a demon, eyes flat and undisturbed as the neck slowly severs under his blade, showing not even a flicker of hesitance even when the bone splits.

His father is a kind a gentle man, but execution was his birthright, as it was his father’s and his father’s father’s and so on into the shrouds of history, long before the dragons left.

Hongbin does not bear the name of the royal family, but his name, too, is an old name, and so he vows to himself to carry it with pride and grace and acceptance, and he vows to himself to kill with all the cold efficiency of his father’s trade.

After the execution, his father hands him the axe.

“Wipe it down for me,” he says, and Hongbin takes it from him as if it is not his first time feeling the sticky slick of blood and hair and bits of flesh on his palm.

He washes his hands in cold water afterwards, scrubbing hard until the skin splits and there is blood on his palms again.

 

Not all deaths are by the axe, he learns from his father.

There are many alternatives, some creative and others mundane. Hongbin learns them all. He learns how to tie a noose, how many drops of each poison is just enough, how to make it slow, and how to make it fast.

It is as much a performance as it is a punishment, and he grows used to the almost gruesome theatricality his father employs when he stands above a crowd of hundreds, the chopping block at his feet. He ties the noose tight, lets spurts of blood stain his clothes, and they yell in equal parts with morbid delight and righteous fury. There is no hiding from the public. They see and they hear and they recognize him and his profession.

“Before death, all are equal,” his father tells him. “Some die with honor, some with shame, and some die without a single tear shed for them. Death does not care. It swallows all of your soul and leaves behind everything else life has to offer.”

 

The day the world crumbles and rebuilds itself in terrifyingly new angles, Hongbin is at the morning market with his mother, a basket of apples weighing down his hand. His brother and father have gone to the palace at the request of the king, as they are due to hold some private execution or another at noon.

“Don’t drop my apples, dear,” his mother tells him absently as she picks through loaves of bread.

“I won’t,” he intones, hefting the bag closer to his hip.

The baker glances at them nervously, shying away from Hongbin’s gaze as their eyes meet. He and his mother have long given up on trying to make conversation with the local vendors. They all recognize him from the chopping block when he stands behind his father with a stony face.

She pays for the bread, and Hongbin spots the baker quickly drop the coins into his purse the moment they leave, wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Hongbin, what is that?” his mother’s voice pulls his attention back to the palace.

There’s a plume of smoke rising from behind the walls. A shout goes up and, too late, Hongbin realizes that the crowd is moving too quickly, mass of people fighting each other to get a closer look or run in the opposite direction.

“We should leave,” he says, tugging on his mother’s sleeve.

“The crown prince is dead!”

He hears the news screamed in frightened grief as he struggles to hold on to his basket and his mother at the same time. The news spreads quickly. People are shouting, running this way and that.

“Treason! Treason!”

He can smell fire.

A man jostles his shoulder as he stumbles by, trembling with fear.

His eyes have begun to sting with smoke.

His mother’s voice in his ear, telling him to _move_.

Horses whinny. A shark jerk of his arm pulls him out of the way of iron-shod hooves. Something hits him. A body, running. Again, again, again. He cannot see his mother anymore. A baby wails.

The palace, before his eyes, lit bright with leaping flames that roar and bellow. Hongbin has seen countless deaths in his short life, but never before has he seen a fire so great and terrible. It lights the sky like the dying sun, orange and bloated and belching sparks and gray ash.

_Before death, all are equal._

It does not care about fire or gold or princes or kings. It swallows a single soul and leaves everything else life has to offer—a king, a brother, a throne, and a lonely, lonely boy who was once a hero.

They give his father a sword and a name and a large estate just north of the capital, yet nothing changes. He was raised to be a weapon, and the blood of his father and his father’s father still runs in his veins.

“You are still my son,” he tells Hongbin. “And blood is still your birthright.”

As time passes, Hongbin comes to understand that just like his brother and his father and all who came before him, he, too, will carry on a name and a legacy older than the first dragon king himself.

 

\--

 

The first day of festivities begins with routine training in the morning.

“We cannot afford to grow lax. Even though the city celebrates, we must be ready to defend the kingdom at any given moment in time,” Eunkwang says as Taekwoon slouches behind him.

Hongbin has not seen him since their encounter and subsequent fight. He wonders if it is possible the man has gotten even scruffier since then.

Despite his warning, Eunkwang leads them through a shortened version of their normal drills, citing the tournament that would begin later in the morning. Halfway through, Hongbin notices that Taekwoon has disappeared.

“Where is your master?” he mutters to Wonsik during a lull in the drills.

Wonsik merely shrugs. “He does not tell me where he goes, and I do not inquire.”

Wonsik is strange sometimes, Hongbin thinks. There is no doubt he trusts and admires his master, yet the man surrounds himself constantly in secrets and ill manners. It is a wonder that Wonsik is unperturbed by Taekwoon’s whims.

After completing their forms, they spar twice with slow, winding movements to warm their limbs. With a good-natured smile after their second bout, Wonsik leaves to find another partner.

Hongbin lets the rotation decide his opponents, fighting two of the older female knights before he finds himself face-to-face with Sanghyuk.

He sighs and feels his face melt into a familiar frown that is mirrored in Sanghyuk’s expression.

“I can find someone else,” Sanghyuk mutters, but Hongbin rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“We should fight,” he grits out, adopting a ready stance.

They exchange a few halfhearted blows. A few years ago, Hongbin might have taken the chance to beat Sanghyuk into the dirt, but he has grown used to wielding steel rather than wood now, and Sanghyuk’s skills are at a level that he cannot casually dismiss.

The first bout ends with Hongbin’s sword levelled at Sanghyuk’s chest.

“I yield,” Sanghyuk says quietly, and Hongbin tries to tamp down the wave of satisfaction he feels from the mere words. They have no meaning in the training yard, he tries to convince himself.

He draws the sword away and allows Sanghyuk to straighten and dust off his clothes, and they start again. This time, Sanghyuk closes in with a few faster blows that force Hongbin back two steps before he can recover and parry properly.

With a quick flick of his hand, Sanghyuk jabs his wooden sword towards Hongbin’s chest. He tries to twist away, but the dull tip connects with his shoulder and sends a line of fiery pain up his arm.

He gasps and backs away, nearly dropping his sword.

Sanghyuk frowns, a flicker of concern barely shadowing his face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Hongbin snaps, taking a breath to recover as his mind races. The blow itself had not been very heavy, so he must have injured himself before arriving on the training grounds. _When, though?_

“That looked like you were hurt,” Sanghyuk points out.

He thinks back to being shoved face-first against a wall, his arm squeezes impossibly tight against his back.

 _You and I are the same_.

He resists the urge to curse. Another bolt of pain shoots up his shoulder as he swings it in gentle arcs.

“It’s nothing,” Hongbin says sharply.

After a moment, Sanghyuk shrugs and raises his sword again.

 

Taekwoon is still absent when the participating knights meet in the throne room to be formally thanked and welcomed by the king. There are men and women from across the kingdom, come to fight for the title of strongest knight of their age. Hongbin does not entertain the thought that he might ever win, but he lets himself hope that he might do well, perhaps even gain favor in the king’s eye.

As the king finishes speaking, he turns to ask Wonsik if he has heard from his master yet, only to see him gazing at the tapestries and paintings lining the walls. They are rich in color despite being hundreds of years old, mostly depicting various images of dragons and fires and war.

“Those are the dragon kings?” Wonsik asks softly, nodding towards the row of painted portraits hanging above the throne. There are forty-three frames, and the newest one is brightly pigmented, clearly fresh with paint.

“Yes.”

The Grand Scholar reads the formal rites and rules of fair play, lighting the brazier above the throne. It would be carried out to the fighting grounds later, where it would burn for the next three days of combat. They kneel at the end, facing the king as they bow their heads.

“And the one at the bottom.” Wonsik says when they rise. “He was our current king’s father?”

Hongbin nods. “King Jungsu. He lived to be sixty-eight. Quite old for a king.”

“He looks so stern,” Wonsik notes, and he looks almost sad as he casts one last glance at the painting. “So tired.”

“He faced many tragedies during his rule,” Hongbin agrees.

They leave with the rest of the knights when the king dismisses them.

It is not until the third fight of the morning that Taekwoon appears again. His name is announced to raucous clamoring, and it is apparent that the crowd anticipates this fight every bit as much as guard. Though he will likely not encounter strong opponents until the latter half of the second day, Hongbin can feel the infectious thrum of excitement as they all sit forward in their seats, not wanting to miss the moment the champion appears before them for the first time in five years.

There is a moment of near-silence as they wait with bated breath, and then Hongbin sees him.

For a moment, he cannot breathe.

Taekwoon’s armor has been recently polished, and the lacquer and bright steel shine, smooth and brilliant, in the sun. He clasps his shield on one arm and holds his sword with the other. His helmet is tucked in the crook of his elbow so they may see his clean-shaven face and the smart cut of his hair, which hangs like a curtain across his brow, ink-black against his light complexion. A white plume rises proudly from his helmet, matching the blank front of his shield, and from afar, he looks as he did seven years ago, stiff-backed and long-legged, a bastard-turned-champion who wielded his sword with uncontested genius.

Hongbin feels like he is fourteen years old again, standing in the stifling stadium with sweaty palms clenched at his sides as he watches the birth of a hero from dust and blood. He swallows against the rise of nausea, breath coming in quick spurts, and finds he cannot tear his gaze away from the match about to unfold before him.

“Are you alright?”

He flinches and forces himself to glance at Wonsik.

“I am fine.”

Wonsik nods, drawing his lips into a thin line. A crease grows on his brow.

“And you?” Hongbin nudges him. “Are you alright?”

His frown deepens.

“I have never seen my master like this before,” he says softly. He sounds lost, but when Hongbin looks again, his face is neutral. “I’ve always admired him, but I have never seen this appearance in the four years I lived with him.”

For a moment, Hongbin feels a swell of pity.

“I have.” Hongbin grimaces. “He looked like this before, the first time he fought for the title of champion.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.” A terse nod. “I was there.”

The fight is over in mere seconds. Taekwoon makes quick work of his opponent, easily disarming him and holding a sword to his throat until he yields. His victory is met with a mixed, but loud reception.

Hongbin scowls again.

“He is efficient,” he allows. That is an understatement. Taekwoon is truly talented.

“Now that,” Wonsik points, “That is something I have seen many times.”

 

They celebrate the end of the first day with wine in the barracks, sitting in the dining commons and spilling into the halls. Taekwoon and Eunkwang and a few other higher ranked officers are notably absent, but their absences do little to dampen the air of festivity.

Hongbin elects to sit in a corner and brood, flexing his arm and shoulder as he tests his range of motion. His first and second fights had been quick, but his sword had flagged from the weight coupled with a slight twinge every time he lifted his arm.

“Care for a drink with me?”

A flask and two cups settle down on the table before Hongbin. He looks up and squints at Wonsik’s smile.

“I do not care to fight with a roaring headache tomorrow,” Hongbin says, shaking his head to decline.

“Suit yourself,” Wonsik shrugs, pouring himself a cup.

“What about you?” Hongbin asks, frowning.

“What about me?”

“You won your matches today,” Hongbin points out. “You really want to feel like shit tomorrow?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Wonsik shakes his head. “Master pulled me from my matches. I won’t fight tomorrow.”

He spills a little rice wine on the wood grain and grimaces, mopping it up with his sleeve. Hongbin can smell the alcohol on his breath already.

“You’re drunk,” he notes.

Wonsik shrugs. It is not a denial.

“Is something wrong?” Hongbin asks carefully. He shifts uncomfortably but forces himself to wait for a response. Wonsik has been nothing but friendly since they first met, and it would be rude to not replicate.

Despite what some of the other knights might say, Hongbin always returns his favors.

Wonsik shrugs again. “Good wine. What’s wrong with a little drinking?”

Hongbin raises an eyebrow. “It’s not like you to be so defensive.”

For a moment, he thinks Wonsik will argue, but he just slumps.

“I am not drunk, but well on the way to becoming so,” he admits. “I am disappointed in myself and angry at my master.”

Hongbin feels a wry smile twist his lips. “And here I thought you never got angry at him.”

“I’m good-tempered,” Wonsik shrugs, “not impervious to anger.”

“And?” Hongbin prompts. “What are you angry about?”

Wonsik hesitates. “The capital frightens me. Everything is new here, and nothing is like home.” He closes his eyes. “You worship beasts and kings, and no one remembers the small gods that live around us. My master does not allow me to fight, yet he makes me train daily with knights I do not know. I never know where he is, and I am scared.”

Hongbin watches as he takes a large mouthful from his cup.

“Why do you follow your master? Aside from being the son of the man who killed the crown prince, he is rude and secretive and ill-groomed. I cannot see why you have so much trust in him.”

Wonsik smiles weakly. “He has been in a bad state since coming here. I call him master, but I am much too old to be his student. He took me in anyway, when he saw that I had no place to go, although he was still grieving the loss of his mother when I arrived on his doorstep.”

“You were a ward under the local lord, right? Why did you decide to follow Taekwoon? I’m sure there are plenty of other good knights in your lord’s household.”

“He told me he was a mercenary when we first met. That is why I asked to follow him,” Wonsik admits. “I was too old to become a knight, and I had heard mercenaries were a lawless group.”

“You? A mercenary?” Hongbin nearly laughs. “It does not suit you, I must say.”

“I’ve been told the same by my master,” Wonsik’s smiles grows a twitch wider. “Either way, he trained me in the necessary skills, and I realized over the years that he was more of a glorified gamesman than a soldier for hire.”

“And you stayed with him anyway?”

“My master is a kind man,” Wonsik says solemnly. “When I first came to live with him, he had terrible dreams from which he would wake up weeping and shouting. He has a great sense of duty, despite his looks. I trusted him for that. Besides, he was the only one who was willing to teach me to fight.”

“He sounds different from what I know,” Hongbin says quietly.

Wonsik peers at him. “What do you know?”

“I knew him before, as a young hero and fledgling knight.” Hongbin absently traces the wood grain of the table. “I know him now as the son of a traitor and a disgraced bastard.”

“He is both of these things,” Wonsik says slowly, “and neither, I suppose. He is a complex man, with many sides that even I have not glimpsed.”

They lapse into silence as Hongbin watches Wonsik slowly drain the cup and pour himself another from his flask.

A roar of laughter rises like a wave from across the hall. Hongbin spots Sanghyuk, his face wreathed in an unfamiliar grin, sitting with a group of younger knights. He scowls, feeling a spike of annoyance tear through him.

“You dislike him,” Wonsik notes. “Yet you do not hate him.”

“Oh, I hate him alright,” Hongbin mutters. “The stupid little prick.”

“You reacted almost instinctively to save him when we were fighting the demons,” Wonsik points out.

“He’s a fellow member of the guard,” Hongbin spits. “We are—” he searches for the right word, “brothers-in-arms.”

“You cannot forge a bond without something to base it on,” Wonsik persists. “You do not hate him.”

“If I do not hate him,” Hongbin says, “then please explain why he irritates me so.”

Wonsik frowns. He works his jaw as he ponders, and Hongbin realizes again that he is still drunk.

Finally, he asks, “Are you sure what irritates you is _him_?”

 

\--

 

“The executioner’s son.” They know who he is.

“As pretty as a flower,” the older students croon as he lines up to take his turn on the ring of dirt during afternoon sparring. He can feel their eyes on him, waiting to witness his incompetence.

His face heats, and he clutches the handle of his wooden sword with a vice-like grip. This is a mistake, he learns later, after his opponent has pummeled him into the dirt. The correct way to hold a sword is with a soft, flexible hand.

“Take care not to get hurt, flower,” his opponent laughs.

Hongbin charges with a shout of indignation, only to be quickly thrown on his ass. His wooden sword is kicked away with an iron-shod boot and the older boy gets in a few blows before the instructors can intervene.

“Take care of that pretty face,” he laughs as Hongbin limps away from the ring, nursing two black eyes and a split lip. “Wouldn’t want to stain it with blood, would we?”

That week, their instructor teaches him how to properly hold the sword.

 _Flexible grip_ , he says, demonstrating. When Hongbin reaches out to catch his attention with a touch to the arm, he snatches his hand away as if burned.

They know who he is, even in the palace, and they are afraid.

During the next sparring practice, he holds his sword with painful awareness.

 _Flexible grip_.

He loses it within thirty seconds, and earns another few bruises to his face.

The next week, Hongbin learns how to parry and deflect a blade. He watches the instructors and the other students, but does not ask for help again. Instead, he practices and practices and practices when the yard is empty and does not go back to the barracks until he is ready to sleep.

He does not win the third week, or the fourth. Eventually, when he does, though, he beats the other boy bloody and broken, until the instructors have to drag him off, kicking and scratching.

He drags his hands across his brow, down his face, leaving trails of bright red wherever he touches.

“Call me a bloody flower one more time,” he spits to his unconscious opponent. He does not mind; he needs the onlookers to hear, too. “I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

 

The first time Hongbin wields a real sword, he can feel the steel singing in his hand, and he thinks, _This is right_.

The leather grip is smooth and snug in his palm, and the blade’s weight is balanced in a way his father’s axe never had been. By this time, he knows well how to handle a wooden sword and hold his own against the other students in the academy.

 _A natural_ , the instructors declare, hesitant praise in their voices.

He knows better. His talent is not one of intuition, but one honed with many years of observation.

Hongbin has been watching death under the cold cut of steel since he could walk, has been cleaning the blood and skin and hair off his father’s blade since he could understand why they died, has been learning how to kill since he was old enough to know he was being groomed to be a killer, too.

 

Hongbin’s second spring is different from his first. His fellow students have long stopped speaking to him, and he is a world apart from the fresh recruits. His skills improve at a rapid pace at the academy, and no one dares taunt him for fear of retaliation on the sparring grounds.

Han Sanghyuk enters the academy at the same time Hongbin rises to the first rank in his year. It’s a mystery how he even entered in the first place. He is clumsy and small and timid and Hongbin _hates_ him.

He is a late entry, just as Hongbin was, but unlike Hongbin, he has never wielded a sword, has never thought of what it would be like to pierce a human. Before he can think more of it, Hongbin finds himself throwing sharp elbows at the boy, knocking him down too hard with wooden swords during practice.

“He is a late entry, just like you. Why don’t you instruct him on how to improve as you did last year?” the instructors encourage him. He hears the hidden implication.

 _He is of low birth, just like you_. They want him to teach Sanghyuk how to survive in the palace, among these sharp-tongued, ruthless snakes.

Hongbin does not give up a single bit of his hard-earned experience to the soft, timid boy. He does not consort with useless, fresh-eyed first-years and refuses to lower himself to such a standard. Sanghyuk is a dead carpenter’s son, yet he lives in the barracks and trains with the other boys instead of staying at home to learn his father’s trade.

Hongbin tells him so, too, in a nasty hiss, and finds himself blinking one too many times when Sanghyuk just retorts, voice trembling, “I know.”

“Then why don’t you go back where you came from and learn your father’s trade?”

Sanghyuk swallows, mouth hardening defiantly. “What about you? Why don’t _you_ go back and learn _your_ father’s trade?”

Hongbin sneers, even though the question strikes a tender spot he doesn’t quite want to admit still exists. “Killing is killing, no matter how you do it.”

He tries not to think about how much he believes himself.

 

\--

 

On the morning of the second day, Hongbin thinks Wonsik’s gods must be laughing at him when he sees his opponent across the ring. He stands, tall and broad in his shining armor and colorless shield, and waits devoid of any expression on a face that still carried a bit of roundness.

 _He looks like a man_ , Hongbin thinks, and instantly hates himself for it.

“Hello, Sanghyuk,” he says as they meet at the center to shake hands.

To his surprise, the solemn face twists into a smirk. “Hello, Hongbin.”

“You look pleased to fight me,” Hongbin says warily.

“I have a lot to pay back for, after all these years.” Sanghyuk bares his teeth. “Perhaps you will find that our usual roles will be reversed today. It’s been a while since we sparred seriously.”

Hongbin stiffens as Sanghyuk breaks the handshake to stride back to his side. He thinks back to all their previous fights and wonders when was the last time he saw Sanghyuk fight him in earnest.

He walks back and raises his blade, eyes narrowed.

 _If this was a trick, you will pay dearly for trying to fool me_ , he vows silently as he stares at Sanghyuk’s ready form.

The king’s hand raises high in the air. Just before it drops, he sees Sanghyuk grin wolfishly again.

“Remember to fight with honor, _flower_.”

Hongbin lunges forward, mind blank, to strike the first blow. Sanghyuk quickly deflects, dancing back, and Hongbin chases after him relentlessly.

There is screaming.

Hongbin’s blade slashes through empty air.

“Did you think I would fall for that?” Sanghyuk laughs, dancing back, and Hongbin can barely hear him over the roar of the crowd, over the roar of his own blood rushing through his ears.

With a flood of clarity, cold in his veins, Hongbin realizes the screaming is coming from himself.

It does not stop.

“Fuck you!” he shouts, slashing. Dimly, he can feel his form breaking again. His shoulder twinges.

 _Do not let your temper control you_. He had never been good at following that particular piece of advice.

Sanghyuk’s eyes widen as he dances back a step, then two.

“Fuck you!” Hongbin yells again, pushing forward.

Sanghyuk parries, but he struggles to keep up with Hongbin’s aggression. He can taste victory like iron in his mouth, can feel the weight of the leather grip of his sword, smooth and warm from the heat of his palm. He thrusts to disarm Sanghyuk and gasps as the twinge in his shoulder suddenly sharpens. He hesitates, and Sanghyuk does not squander the brief advantage.

A flash of steel against sun, and there is a sharp, biting pain in Hongbin’s thigh. He gasps, struggling to keep his knee from buckling.

Hongbin lashes out before Sanghyuk can advance further and driving him away as he limps to his feet. Sanghyuk’s eyes are wide, his gaze fixed on a spot just lower than his eyes. With a start, Hongbin realizes he’s staring at Hongbin’s shoulder.

Hongbin winces as he raises his sword arm again. Sanghyuk looks at him, mouth rounded with shock, and then back at his arm. The bravado from before has completely disappeared. To Hongbin’s shock, his form begins to relax, sword arm dipping out of his stance.

“What are you doing?” Hongbin growls. He steps forward, and Sanghyuk does not move.

“You’re injured.”

The crowd has begun to murmur, realizing something is wrong.

“Pick up your sword.” Hongbin can feel his grip tightening. He forces himself to loosen his fist.

Sanghyuk swallows, still staring at his arm.

“Was it because of me?” his voice is hoarse.

“Pick up your sword,” Hongbin repeats, voice dangerously low.

Sanghyuk glances between his eyes and his shoulder. “Did I do this yesterday?”

“That is none of your business,” Hongbin says. “Pick up your sword, before I impale you on mine.”

Sanghyuk sets his teeth, face contorted with hesitation. He lets his arm drop until it hangs uselessly at his side.

“Pick it up!” Hongbin can feel his voice growing in volume. The crowd’s murmurs slowly trickle into jeers and shouts as they realize Sanghyuk does not plan on fighting.

Sanghyuk says nothing. He stares down at his arm and lets the sword clatter to the dust.

“Are you looking down on me?” Hongbin demands.

He steps forward, dropping his shield to give Sanghyuk a rough shove. He stumbles back, but makes no move to resist. Hongbin shoves again, hard enough to make him go sprawling in to the dirt.

“This is your last chance to pick it up,” Hongbin says, pointing with his blade first to Sanghyuk, and then to the sword at his feet.

Sanghyuk is silent.

“You fucker,” Hongbin seethes. “You absolute _snake_. What are you planning?” He kicks the sword away. “I won’t fall for it, whatever you do.”

“It’s over.” Sanghyuk says quietly, and Hongbin can barely hear him over the disapproval of the crowd, mocking and harsh.

“It’s not over until you yield.”

“Its _over_.” Sanghyuk squeezes his eyes shut briefly, scowling. “You’ve won.”

“Not until you yield!” Hongbin screams, pressing the blade against Sanghyuk’s neck. There is a thin sliver of blood beading from where steel rests on flesh, slick with sweat. “Yield to me!”

Sanghyuk pants and swallows dry dust, the bob of his throat drawing more blood.

“Hongbin!” A voice in the distance. Eunkwang.

Hard hands on his arms, wrenching them apart before he can drive the blade down.

“Hongbin, you need to stop,” Eunkwang warns, voice low in his ear.

 _You are the same as me_.

“Yield!” Hongbin screams at the figure rising from the dust. Not yet, not yet. “He hasn’t said it yet! He must yield for the match to be over!”

“It _is_ over,” Eunkwang hisses. “What is wrong with you? Get your head out of your ass or you’ll both be disqualified.”

“I refuse to lose to him,” Hongbin insists. “I will not be fooled.”

“If you do not stand down _right now_ , your actions will be interpreted as an attack against a fellow knight. At worst, you will be tried and executed.”

He feels the strength go from his knees as his leg gives. The trickle of blood is warm against his skin. He feels a sudden, sharp dizziness as the world floods back, and the roar of the crowd presses too close against his ears.

He drops his sword, and Sanghyuk gulps in a large breath.

Finally, Hongbin slumps against Eunkwang and lets himself be lead out of the ring.

 

**\--**

 

The capital is awash with lanterns and festivities the week of the new champion’s tournament. Hongbin’s brother takes him out to the far side of the city to buy candy that looks like painted glass blown into the shape of a red-eyed rabbit. He holds it on the stick and cannot bring himself to lick it until his brother tells him it will melt in the sun if he waits any longer.

“Hurry along,” his brother tells him as they run through the streets, eager not to miss the last day of the tournament.

The ring smells of dust and sun and Hongbin remembers the mock fight that they had watched all those years ago. He can feel the excitement welling up in his chest at the prospect of watching a real one between the best the kingdom has to offer.

As the contenders emerge, Hongbin’s brother mutters their names in his ear so that he may recognize them by their colors and armor. He knows some by face, others from rumors he heard when he visited the palace with their father.

“That boy is only four years older than you,” Hongbin’s brother points. The boy in question bears a shield painted in white.

“Why does he have no standard?” Hongbin asks. He leans forward and peers at the armor-clad figure. He looks like he might have a handsome face up close, and his hair is cut stylishly, slightly mussed by his helmet. He is, by far, the youngest of the lot, and he holds himself with a contained air, showing no reaction to both the crowd and his fellow knights.

“He is an illegitimate son of one of the king’s councilmen,” his brother says. “His father sent him to be a soldier, and it is said he is very talented. He has yet to reach his prime.”

As they watch, the knight strides forward to shake the hand of his opponent. He is surprisingly tall compared to the other man, and Hongbin notes that he has long legs, well-proportioned and strong.

“He looks quite noble, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t guess that he was a bastard if not for his shield.”

The contenders bow once and walk to opposite sides of the ring, and Hongbin finds himself breathless as the fight starts, leaning so far forward he nearly falls out of his seat.

The bastard fights like he was born to wield a sword. There are no pretty tricks or dancing feet, but he is fast and strong and holds his blade almost as if it is an afterthought, a mere extension of his arm. He rains heavy blows and clever parries down on his opponent’s head until the other man kneels in the dust, head bowed in submission.

He wins the first fight, and Hongbin claps.

He wins the second fight, and Hongbin cheers.

He wins the third fight, and Hongbin screams, stomping with the rest of the stadium until he can feel the knight’s name pounding in his bones.

 _Jung Taekwoon_ , they call him, _champion._

Later, they stand him on a podium as the crown prince hands him a lighted torch, a symbol of their new bond. When he removes his helmet again, Hongbin can see the flush of his cheeks, pink with exertion. He holds his chin high and stands as stiff-backed as before, as if it is a given he should win the most prestigious position awarded to a knight in his generation.

He looks, Hongbin thinks, like a hero.

“You see, Hongbin?” His brother sounds almost sad. “Even if he’s a bastard, he’s a nobleman’s bastard. You can tell by his stride and the way he fights. This—” he gestures at the ring, “the glory, the swords, everything—this is his birthright.”

 

**\--**

 

“You are not fit to fight in another match,” the physician tells him with a disapproving curl of the lip.

Hongbin cannot bring himself to argue, cowed under the force of Eunkwang’s glare. He lets the physician leave before he speaks.

“You have acted very foolishly today,” he says in a near-whisper, and Hongbin feels a flood of gratitude that Eunkwang is kind enough to spare him from the eavesdroppers who are no doubt lurking outside the door. “Do you know how disrespectful you have been?”

Hongbin nods stiffly.

“Your instructors and I have been remiss in condoning your temper, but this is too much. You will get yourself killed one day if you cannot learn to control yourself.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” He forces the words out between his teeth.

Eunkwang sighs. “I cannot have you treating your fellow knights like this. With the demons approaching, we do not have time for your petty squabbles. You will apologize and treat him civilly from now on. Do you understand?”

“Sir—” Hongbin begins, pained, but Eunkwang stops him with a stern glare.

“ _Do you understand?_ ”

“Yes, sir.”

Eunkwang rises from his seat, placing a hand briefly on Hongbin’s shoulder. “You’re a good swordsman, Hongbin. Don’t let your anger cloud your judgment.”

Hongbin feels a lump rise in his throat.

A knock sounds on the door.

“That must be Sanghyuk.” Hongbin stiffens, dropping his eyes. Eunkwang sees it and frowns. “Now is a good time to apologize for your actions. There is no time to sulk.”

“I understand, sir.”

Eunkwang gives him a long look. “Alright, then.” He walks over to the door. “Sanghyuk, good timing. I see you’ve been patched up. Go ahead inside.”

The sound of footsteps crosses the threshold. When the door creaks closed, Hongbin grits his teeth and looks up.

Sanghyuk has a bandage around his neck, and his right eye is shiny with salve. He shifts from foot to foot skittishly, fixing his gaze on Hongbin’s knee. His habit of fidgeting hasn’t changed since he was young, Hongbin thinks, irritated. He looks like he’s waiting for their sword instructors to give him a tongue-lashing for a badly-fought spar.

_Might as well get it over with._

“I lost my head.”

Sanghyuk’s head jerks up, mouth rounded with surprise.

“You thought I wouldn’t admit it?” Hongbin laughs bitterly. “I’m a fucking asshole, and a stupid one at that. You were an idiot, though, for dropping your sword.”

“You were injured,” Sanghyuk mumbles, jerking his head towards Hongbin’s shoulder.

“You thought that was your fault and decided to throw the fight?” His gut boils with anger. “Don’t kid yourself. I don’t need your pity.”

“I didn’t do it out of pity,” Sanghyuk says, eyes flashing.

“You did it for _honor?_ ” Honor sneers. He stands so he does not have to look up at Sanghyuk. “Trying to play at knights and dragons now, are we?”

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Sanghyuk bursts. His lower lip trembles and Hongbin is almost surprised he sees no tears. “I am a fully-fledged knight just as you are. I hold the same rank and title, yet you always insist on demeaning me, as if we are still boy at the academy. Why have you held a grudge against me all these years? Why me?”

“Don’t you think for a single second,” Hongbin hisses, jabbing a stiff finger into Sanghyuk’s chest. He feels taut muscle underneath, and another vein of annoyance snakes through his gut. “Don’t you think for a single second that I think anything of you, you useless _boy_.”

He punctuates the last word with a hard thrust of his elbow, pushing Sanghyuk into the wall, but it’s been years now, and Sanghyuk has learned to shove back.

“You don’t think anything of me?” Sanghyuk scoffs out a harsh laugh. “ _Please_. I see how you look at me. It doesn’t matter what you feel, but you feel something. I don’t care if it’s admiration or envy or hate, but you feel _very_ strongly about me.”

“Is that what you dream about?” Hongbin spits, loathe to give up the higher ground as Sanghyuk smirks in his face, arrogant and crude. He pushes forward, until he and Sanghyuk are standing nearly nose-to-nose, and fresh irritation flows through him as he realizes, up close, the clear difference in height.

The set of Sanghyuk’s face is stony, but Hongbin doesn’t miss the way his pupils tremble, twitching down to snag, ever so briefly, on Hongbin’s lips, and he sees victory. He lets the corner of his mouth curl up humorlessly, cruelly, because he knows the sharper it is, the easier it will be to catch his gaze.

Sanghyuk’s eyes turn dark and all Hongbin can think of is whispers and blood and the feeling of holding a blade, cold metal and smooth leather heavy in his hand.

“Do you think of me doing this?” Hongbin snarls, as pretty as a flower (as pretty as a snake), before he crushes their mouths together.

For just a moment, he feels Sanghyuk tilt his head, sinking into the kiss and molding their lips together. He sees sparks, pushing himself closer with eager breaths, but just as soon as he moves, Sanghyuk shoves him back in a frantic scramble. He is still scrubbing his lips as he leans back, curling in on himself defensively, and Hongbin is shocked to see his eyes are wet when he glares.

Without a word, he charges out of the room, and in the sudden emptiness, Hongbin can’t help but compare the cold of the wall to the heat of Sanghyuk’s body through his clothes in the brief moment they had been pressed together.

The training yard is empty the next morning. Hongbin doesn’t care. He sets up a straw dummy and hits at it with a staff until his shoulder aches and the straw is falling out.

“You should be resting.”

He takes another swing, resisting the urge to drop the staff as the pain intensifies.

 _Whack_.

“I know you can hear me.”

_Whack._

“Hongbin.”

 _Whack_.

“Boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snarls and whirls around.

Taekwoon leans against a pillar towards the edge of the training yard and gazes back, unimpressed. His hair is still wet from bathing, brushed back from his brow, and Hongbin forces himself to tear his eyes away from the once-familiar face.

“You’re injured,” Taekwoon says. “And disqualified. You should be sleeping late and healing yourself.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Hongbin says shortly. He turns back to work on the dummy, and finds he can barely even lift his right arm.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Hongbin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t raise the staff again, either.

“If you had not dropped out, you would have fought me today.”

Hongbin bites down on the inside of his cheek. He can feel his eyes stinging.

“You are quite strong. It would have been quite a challenge for me.”

“Stop,” Hongbin blurts. He stares hard at the dirt between his feet. “Stop trying to comfort me.”

“I’m merely stating the truth.”

“Stop,” Hongbin says again, and he is horrified to hear his voice crack. He swallows painfully.

“I don’t mind,” Taekwoon says, as if reading his mind. His voice is flat as always, and Hongbin finds it strangely comforting.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth when he speaks again. He struggles through the words anyway.

“I lost my head yesterday and did something extremely foolish.”

“What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing,” he says reflexively.

“I could see it since the moment you came to my doorstep. I know what it looks like, boy,” Taekwoon says. “There is something that’s been eating at you for a long time.”

Hongbin closes his eyes, feeling the wetness build up.

_Do not close your eyes. Do not shed tears. Do not show any emotion, especially not sympathy._

“Am I a killer?” he asks in a small voice. He hates how weak he sounds.

_Do not show any emotion._

“Are you stupid? At what time have you killed someone in your life?” _Do not close your eyes. Do not—_ “You’re a knight, are you not?”

He feels the first tears squeeze free, running down his cheeks as bitter regret overflows.

“Hongbin?”

“Please,” he gasps against the tightness rising in his throat. He can feel his voice changing, growing thin and reedy, and he feels sick in his stomach, nauseous with disgust. He fights it down, chokes it back until nothing leaves his mouth but a hoarse whisper. “Please, show me how to be a hero.”

There is a long silence, and he can hear his breaths grow more labored in his ears. His vision swims with tears, and he grips the handle of the staff until it feels like it will snap.

“I don’t know how,” Taekwoon finally answers. “I’ve never been a hero, either.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry there'll be more neo next time. idk if you guys were expecting this chapter to be hongbin's pov? lmao i thought about doing jaehwan when i was going through the plot but i'll save that one for later. redemption is a long road and hongbin has to start eventually...
> 
> a note on updates: it looks like i'm settling into a rhythm of ~3 weeks per chapter. i'll probably continue with this schedule and update on fri/sat/sun. thank you for being patient with me and continuing to follow this fic!


	5. The Silent Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence (this is going to apply to every chapter from now)

In the palace, they tell a story of the first dragon queen, born to a land of turmoil and strife. She was her father’s first child, and her younger brother was his second.

At her birth, the empty torches in the hallway flared with fire at the ferocity of her screams. They say fire runs strongest in the veins of the first child, and magic dwells deepest in the heart of the third. Her mother never bore a third child, and so she alone inherited the dragon’s blood.

When she turned three years old, her father took her as his own child, and her mother wept, for she would have no one to inherit her name.

Traditional calls for a daughter to take her mother’s name and a son to take his father’s, but there was once a dragon standing above a dying man on a trampled, war-torn field. There was once a dragon who breathed a goodbye wreathed in magic on that man’s brow, sealing with it a promise that would burn through generations of his family.

They say dragon’s fire runs strongest in the veins of the first child, and so the first dragon queen took her father’s name, and it became known that the first child born to a dragon, queen or king, would be tied first and foremost to the royal line.

When Hakyeon is born, there is already a first child, ready to take the duty of a future king. His mother is fierce and proud, and she will not let her name—the name she received from her mother, her grandmother, and all who came before her—die for the sake of mere dragons.

She tells the king, “These children were born mere minutes apart. There will come a time in the future when the younger will yearn after his brother’s power.”

“And what will you have me do to prevent it?” he inquires, and she smiles, because she is wily and willful and knows she will have her way even before he does.

“Give him to me. Let me raise him as my child, and not yours. When he grows older, he will not yearn for the throne, as it will not be his to have.”

Taekwoon thinks of this story as he strides through the east wing, his sword heavy at his hip. It had been Minhyuk who told it to him during one of their countless days training at the academy. By that time, Taekwoon had already stopped seeing Hakyeon on a daily basis. He had not known at the time, but thinking back on it now, Taekwoon realizes Hakyeon had been meeting with Ryeowook during all those times he never came to see the visit of them.

The thought of Ryeowook pulls him back into the present as he falters at the throne room. Already, countless servants are bustling about, readying the great hall for the ceremonies that would occur at the end of the day, when the winner is decided.

Anxiety worms through Taekwoon, coiling tight in his chest. After a moment’s hesitation, he turns into the south hall. Ryeowook had always taught him to center himself—to find peace of mind—before fighting. He had tried to sit in his room the past two days, eyes closed as he focused on his breathing, but the space had felt too bare, too impersonal.

His feet carry him before he can make up his mind, and he lets himself walk away from the training yard, from the soft sound of Hongbin’s restrained tears. Later, he will remember the young knight’s words, his quiet pleas, and the underlying desperation for guidance. For now, though, he does not let himself stop and reminisce about the hunger that had once clawed through his chest when he was young and naïve and bled for glory.

Before he can fully push out the memories, he finds himself standing under branches of unripe peaches, staring out at a clear lily pond. He puts a palm to the rough wood and feels its twists under his fingers. It is too early for the fruit to be anywhere near ripe, but he still pulls a green peach from the lowest branch, rolling it in his hand. The flesh does not give under his thumb.

A gentle footstep rustles the grass behind him. “You used to climb to pick them before.”

He closes his eyes, leaning his shoulder against the branches. “It amused Hakyeon.”

“You haven’t grown much in five years,” Jaehwan says in agreement, stepping forward until he is abreast with Taekwoon. He folds his hands in the wide sleeves of his robes, gazing at the pond.

“Does he still eat the peaches every year?”

“He has not set foot in this garden in years.” Taekwoon opens his eyes a slit to study his companion. Jaehwan looks serene, almost peaceful. “When he lived in his mother’s chambers, he would look out the window, but never stand here himself. He enjoys punishing himself, I think.”

Taekwoon drops the small peach, hard as a knot, and wipes his hand on his trousers. “What did you seek me out for?”

“I came to speak with you.” The calm expression is replaced with something harder, more focused. “You need to win, today.”

“I always fight with all my strength,” Taekwoon says slowly.

“You need to win,” Jaehwan repeats. “Don’t give me this bullshit about the strongest fighter winning. _You_ will win.” His eyes are hard, hard enough that Taekwoon almost believes him.

_Is this a test?_

He doesn’t need to ask.

“Don’t worry.” He tastes the bitterness in the words. “You don’t need to ply me with honeyed reassurances. I will put up a good fight, but I understand why I am here. Hakyeon needs a proper champion, someone who wins the title after properly defeating me. Once it is over, it will be better if I do not show my face in the capital again.”

“You understand nothing,” Jaehwan says, this time with more force. “Hakyeon does not know that I am here. I sought you of my own volition.”

Taekwoon turns to face him, bemused. “You are trying to manipulate me again.”

“I am not,” Jaehwan says, a frown growing on his lips. “Hakyeon does not want to force you, but he needs you by his side. He does not only want a champion; he wants you.”

Taekwoon tries to take a deep breath, cursing himself as it shudders on the way out. “Stop. I do not want to hear these words right now.”

“You need to fight and win, Taekwoon,” Jaehwan says. He steps close, and Taekwoon recognizes the familiar challenging stance as his shoulders tense and they stare at each other eye to eye. “I did not want to tell you, originally, as I did not want to upset you before your crucial matches, but it has become clear to me that you plan to lose and run off to fuck knows where as soon as the tournament ends.”

Taekwoon forces his voice to stay even. “And what will you do to dissuade me?”

“I know it pains you to be so close to him like this, but he needs you, Taekwoon. Hakyeon will never accept himself as king. He thinks of himself as a placeholder, someone to fill the throne until the next dragon king arrives.” Jaehwan sucks in a painful breath.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the truth.”

Jaehwan looks flustered, but Taekwoon does not doubt he has had enough time in court to hone his acting abilities. “Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” Jaehwan says, brow furrowed. “But you need to fight to win. You cannot lose to anyone today.”

“You thought I would purposefully lose.”

“Yes.” Jaehwan is mercifully frank. No simpering; no niceties. It’s a show of trust, in a way. Or it could just be another one of his ploys. “I know when you and Hakyeon spoke of the tournament, he implied that he would not require your service in the future if he chose another champion. You are not the soldier you once were. You no longer hunger for victory, and have no reason to remain here if you are no use to the king. I came to the obvious conclusion.”

“I have nothing to my name but my sword. That will never change. I no longer seek honor, but I still have pride.” It is nearly a lie, but Taekwoon can still hear his mother’s voice in his mind, can still see the rigid line of her back as they rode under the quiet moon and blank stare of his father’s severed head.

_Serve your king well, my sweet son._

Jaehwan blinks up at him. “Are you willing to become the champion for him? You would live the rest of your life in agonizing proximity, never able to touch him?” The words are deliberately harsh, intended to provoke.

“I will do anything Hakyeon asks of me.”

“So you will think on it?”

“No.” The answer seems to surprise Jaehwan. “I will fight my best, as I always have, and the winner will be the champion.”

“As straightforward as always,” Jaehwan sighs. “You’re too bullheaded for this court.”

“I know that.”

Jaehwan hesitates. “You have made it clear that you will fight to win today, no matter the motives and consequences, but you must understand the importance of your victory.” He pauses, studying Taekwoon’s expression. “You have to show that you _want_ to serve him. You are the only remaining legacy of Minhyuk’s power. Even if he finds another champion, there will be people who think he will never measure up to his brother. He needs your loyalty and obedience to—”

“Enough.” Taekwoon says sternly. “I know.”

Jaehwan’s eyes pinch at the corners. “Taekwoon—”

“I may be bullheaded, but I am not naïve. You need not worry I will forfeit the match.”

Taekwoon exhales a long breath, letting his eyes drift shut.

“Leave me,” he murmurs. “I need to center myself before the matches start.”

After a moment, he hears the pad of light footsteps as Jaehwan leaves without another word.

 

\--

 

Taekwoon ponders the conversation with Jaehwan as he walks towards the arena.

After a few more moments at the pond, he had set off back for the training grounds to warm his muscles. Hongbin had been replaced by some other early risers, including Eunkwang, who greeted him with a small smile. He had gone through his stances with unflinching focus, even when Eunkwang left early to polish his armor, and now he walks through the halls alone towards the stadium, mind wandering despite his best efforts to calm his mind.

The first day, Jaehwan had ordered the servants to cut Taekwoon’s hair, scrub his skin in bath and rub oil into his skin until he gleamed under the sunlight, the perfect image of the triumphant boy champion the kingdom had cheered for seven years ago, a young hero befitting a young king-to-be.

_Hakyeon will never accept himself as king. He thinks of himself as a placeholder, someone to fill the throne until the next dragon king arrives._

It could have been another ploy, another act to convince Taekwoon to put up a convincing fight so that he can be properly disgraced and discarded for another more suitable champion, but he finds himself lingering on Jaehwan’s hesitance, his lack of good excuses. He had seen Jaehwan lie before—if he really wanted to convince Taekwoon of something, he would have fed him a better lie. Or so Taekwoon would like to think.

 _And yet_. He sighs to himself. What real motive would Jaehwan have to want him to stay?

The sound of boots clicking against marble interrupts his thoughts. He looks up, hearing the sound of Hakyeon’s voice in quiet conversation before he sees him around the corner.

He is in deep conversation with a young girl clutching at his elbow, two guards walking a respectful distance behind them. At the sight of Taekwoon approaching, he looks up with a deep nod and a smile, small but warm.

Taekwoon fights back the instinctive flinch and responds with a smile of his own. Not too large or blatant—an outright laugh might suggest favoritism on Hakyeon’s part—and just familiar enough to be appropriate for friends of different ranks. It’s a carefully scripted game that he has grown accustomed to playing over the course of the past week, and yet sometimes, he still finds it hard to discern where the affection ends and the false smiles begin.

The girl, on the other hand, stares openly at him with her mouth in a round circle. She can’t be older than eighteen, and her grip on Hakyeon’s arm tightens as she peers up at him curiously.

“You’re the champion!” she cries in surprise as Taekwoon stops before them, bowing low.

“Only a contender for the position,” he corrects modestly.

She stares at him with shrewd eyes before turning to Hakyeon. “Uncle, you must introduce us.”

“Yerim, this is Taekwoon. He was my brother’s appointed champion.” He turns to Taekwoon. “Taekwoon, Lady Yerim of the Silver Isles. She had been visiting her cousin at court when the Fire flared, and she is currently unable to return home, seeing as all ships to the Isles have been detained.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am sorry to hear of your plight, my lady,” Taekwoon says, bending at the waist for her as she smiles delightedly.

“You’re so tall!” she gasps as he straightens.

To Taekwoon’s surprise, Hakyeon laughs. “He grew like a tree when he was a child.”

He schools his face into mild amusement as Yerim continues to chatter with Hakyeon, who laughs dutifully when prompted and pats her hand absently as she talks.

“My cousin is fighting today,” Yerim informs him, studying his face for a reaction. He tilts his head, indicating for her to continue. “Uncle Hakyeon has seen her fight a few times. He says she is quite skilled.”

“She is light on her feet,” Hakyeon nods.

Yerim is still watching Taekwoon for a reaction, and he is not sure what she expects. Instead, he derails, “Uncle?”

“I used to visit the Silver Isles often,” Hakyeon explains. “Our mothers were childhood friends.” For a moment, his expression grows distant.

“Uncle Hakyeon has not returned to see his lands in years,” Yerim says, looking pointedly at the deep blue of his sleeve. “His mother named him her heir because she did not want them to be absorbed into the crown, but her efforts have gone to waste.”

“Yerim,” Hakyeon cuts in, his voice a little too sharp.

Yerim replies with a small grin, also too sharp. They stare at each other until Taekwoon clears his throat. Yerim glances at him.

“I’m sorry,” Hakyeon says, voice neutral and devoid of its earlier warmth, “We must be keeping you from your business. I’m sure there are many preparations you have left to do before your matches today.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” Taekwoon replies, matching the formality of his tone. He bows again. “Speaking with you is always a pleasure. If you would excuse me, though, I have to retrieve my armor.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Hakyeon tugs his arm until Yerim gives a half-curtsy. He holds Taekwoon’s gaze for a moment, and then his face is relaxing into a not-quite-smile. It looks natural, almost unconscious, and Taekwoon’s breath catches as he tilts his head, glancing up at him from a familiar angle. “Good luck, Taekwoon.”

Taekwoon bows low, breaking eye contact. “Thank you, Majesty.”

 

The arena is loud with the sound of the gathering crowd by the time Taekwoon arrives. He joins the other fighters in the adjoining training area and stands next to Eunkwang and Wonsik on a soft patch of grass as his apprentice helps him into his armor. He knows it embarrasses Wonsik to do the work of a squire five years his junior, but he checks all the straps and buckles in dutiful silence.

The sound of soft laughter drifts over the chatter of the crowd and clink of armor. His eyes wander to the source, one of Eunkwang’s senior knights, Joohyun, standing toe to toe with a woman dressed in rich silks, presumably her lover. They clasp hands, murmuring to one another with easy familiarity.

Taekwoon finds he cannot tear his eyes away from the absent, half-smile on the knight’s face, as if the mere presence of the other is enough to lift the corners of her lips. He remembers the ghost of such a lightness in his chest, pulling his breath taut in his lungs.

As he watches, the lady reaches into her sleeve and draws out a thin square of cloth, painted with orange dye, and wraps it carefully around the knight’s upper arm. She whispers something in her ear and the knight laughs, drawing a gentle thumb across her cheek before leaning in for a short kiss.

Taekwoon looks away. He fingers at the ribbon tied around his wrist, now stained and soiled with dirt and time.

“Master?”

He jumps and turns to Wonsik, who looks back with concern. Behind him, Eunkwang watches with barely-concealed pity.

He breathes deeply, allowing his sleeve to drop back down as he exhales, and holds his hands out so Wonsik can strap the arm guards on.

 

\--

 

When Taekwoon steps out onto the beaten dirt, he knows what the people want to see. He does not fight like he did when he was eighteen years old, overwhelmed by the roar and the smell and the all-consuming hunger for glory.

When his foot touches the arena this time, he knows the scent of blood and sweat and metal and earth, and he breathes until it fades into a placid focus honed sharp over years of training. He does not fight for a title or acceptance or even the joy of excitement rushing through his veins. He fights only to win.

His first match is a grueling victory. He does not waste time playing with his opponent, but wears him out with heavy strokes of his blade. He bows politely to the other man both before and after and helps him to his feet after he yields.

His second match is much faster. His opponent is heavily injured from her first fight and subsequently, despite her previous victory, forfeits. He watches her match until the end, noting the flash of orange on her upper arm as she limps out, sword raised to hoots and cheers. At the edge of the ring, she is met with her lady love, who loops an arm around her shoulder and leans in to murmur in her ear.

Taekwoon stands to prepare for his third match.

In the early afternoon, after they have all properly lunched in tents set up on the training fields, Taekwoon steps into the arena to meet his final opponent of the day.

“Hello,” Eunkwang says, a smile wreathing his face. His armor is newly shined and a green plume rises from his helmet. “Good luck, Taekwoon.”

“Good luck to you, too,” Taekwoon nods.

They shake hands, bow to each other, and part ways.

Taekwoon glances up as Hakyeon raises his hand. There is a flash of gold in the sun, blue as deep as the night, and clean, bright white. He is wearing a glove.

The hand drops.

Eunkwang does not hold back on him. He is sure-footed and quick, and the crowd claps for him as he dances forward and back, side to side, darting in and out of Taekwoon’s reach. He is entertaining to watch, small and fast where Taekwoon is tall and strong.

They are two sides to a coin, and Taekwoon finds himself faltering as he wonders who the watchers really want to win. He nearly gets impaled on Eunkwang’s next jab, and only years of experience saves him as he parries and back-steps.

“You’re distracted,” Eunkwang calls, swinging his sword in lazy arcs. The action is not purely aesthetic; Taekwoon finds himself distracted from the shift in Eunkwang’s feet as he closes in again, lightning-fast.

They circle each other in an old dance that brings Taekwoon back to sitting in the dirt patching up limbs that were still boyishly gangly, laughing through pleasant aches and sores. The feel of smooth wood under newly-formed calluses, grass under bare feet, the smell of peaches—

Eunkwang had been too young and inexperienced at eighteen years old, lasting three matches before yielding to an older contender. Seven years later, he is closer to his prime, and the years of hard work and strict discipline show as he batters his way forward, stronger and faster than Taekwoon remembers from their youth.

“Show me what you have done these past five years,” Eunkwang grunts. 

Taekwoon launches a flurry of attacks until he retreats. Eunkwang smiles, and the expression looks nearly wild on his face. Taekwoon understands the sentiment—he had felt it once, when he was young and fought for the sake of fighting, when he had not yet realized he had more than just his sword to his name. It is only with loss that a man comes to know what he once possessed.

“Show me,” Eunkwang repeats, and they are both tiring now. They have endured three long days of fighting, and the wear has begun to show in their bodies.

Taekwoon does not have nothing, but he does not have much.

 _I no longer seek honor, but I still have my pride_ , he had told Jaehwan, and he had not lied.

He does not fight for a title. He does not fight for acceptance. He does not fight for the heady thrum of energy in his body, and yet he wants to win.

He licks his lips and raises his sword and spots a flash of blue on his wrist as his sleeve rides up.

He is not the boy-hero he once was. He is better.

“I have not been idle the last five years,” he says as he drives Eunkwang back.

The rest of the stadium cannot hear him, but they will understand through his actions. Every swing, every step, and every flash of sun on metal give way to the same purpose, and he shows them his pride—his stubborn, dogged, unflinching pride. He commands them to know him for his plain blade, his blank shield, and his white plume, and he challenges them to acknowledge him—a bastard, a traitor—for his skill.

With one last swing, he hooks his foot behind Eunkwang’s heel and kicks his sword away as he clatters to the ground.

The stadium quiets as the crowd becomes aware of what they are about to witness.

Among the hundreds, Taekwoon can feel a single gaze heavy on him, waiting to see what he will choose.

 _You are the champion_ , Taekwoon thinks, but it is Jaehwan’s voice in his head. _You are the champion, and you will make him king_.

He swings his sword down, bringing the blade to rest on Eunkwang’s neck.

“I yield.” The words ring loud in the tense stadium.

For a moment, Taekwoon feels the eyes of the kingdom bearing down on him in silent, unified judgment. And then, as one, the crowd bursts into cheers. They think they have witnessed the rebirth of a hero, but Taekwoon knows better. Nevertheless, he will let them believe what they see.

He lowers the sword, helping Eunkwang to his feet.

“You’ve always been a ruthless dueler,” he groans, rubbing at a bruise blooming on his back.

Taekwoon chuckles mirthlessly, clapping him on the back. And then he is turning, raising his fist for the roaring stands, his gaze pinned on Hakyeon and Hakyeon alone.

Even from the floor, Taekwoon can see his expression on the dais, relief stark on his face. Behind him, Jaehwan smiles, casually appraising and deceptively soft, his hand resting on his hip.

 _I will make you king_ , Taekwoon vows as he drops to his knee, bending fealty. There are no words for this moment, but he mouths them anyway, lets them drop unborn onto the beaten dirt below, private in a crowd of thousands. _I will be your champion. I serve none other but you._

 

As is custom, he climbs the flights of the seating area to kneel before Hakyeon’s dais, head bowed. Jaehwan watches keenly as he drops his gaze to the ground, listening to the crackle of flames in the brazier.

A soft rustling of fabric, and Hakyeon’s feet come into view as he steps forward. He extends a gloved hand, and Taekwoon fights back a shiver as he brushes the cloth over Hakyeon’s fingertips ever so slightly with his own, bringing his mouth forward to kiss the signet ring.

“Sir Jung.” It’s been years since the last time someone addressed him by a title. “You have drifted for five years, without land nor honor to your name. Do you swear to pledge your devotion first and foremost to the dragon kings?”

Taekwoon dips his head even lower. “Yes, Majesty.”

The flat of a blade against his left shoulder.

“Do you swear to defend the crown against all that threatens it, may it be demons, magic, or men, with your life?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

The blade moves to his right shoulder.

“Do you swear to fight in my name until the day you die?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Taekwoon says. “Only you.”

He is just close enough to hear the faint catch in Hakyeon’s breath.

He steps back for a moment, returning with the sword angled down in one hand and a torch clutched in the other. The flames warm Taekwoon’s face as he watches the glitter of fire and sunlight in the golden blade. He stands and accepts both offerings.

Their hands do not touch.

“Congratulations on your victory, champion.”

He bows low, almost deeper than is required. It is a show of love—the only one he is allowed before the eyes that watch them.

“Thank you, Majesty.”

 

\--

 

The celebrations are tempered with the shadow of war. Since the first dragon king, there have been many wars between men, but the dragons’ reign has not been long enough for the people to forget the price of warring with demons.

Taekwoon would not be able to bring himself to celebrate, even if he had won the war itself. He stands before the throne for as long as he is required, uncomfortably enduring a toast and a short, but rousing speech from Hakyeon. Afterwards, he steps down and does his best to melt back into the crowd. He had never gotten used to the social aspect of a champion’s duties, and after five years, he can acutely feel his lack of practice as every conversation threatens to run circles around him.

He circles the halls, speaking to this lord and that lady, smiling appropriately and trying to sound eloquent. It is only after a long few hours that he allows himself to hide outside on a balcony, drinking in the cool night air and quiet darkness. There was a time where he would have immediately retreated to the back gardens and lost himself in heady wine and clumsy fingers and the scent of a prince’s skin. Even now, grown as he is, he cannot help but let the memory of simpler times wash over him.

“Congratulations, champion,” Jaehwan says, slipping in next to him.

“Thank you.”

Jaehwan glances at him through the corner of his eye, letting a small smirk drift onto his lips. “I saw you trying to hold conversation earlier. Your manners have become crude over the years, Taekwoon.”

“I had none to begin with,” Taekwoon replies bluntly. “You know how it is to be forgotten in the gardens or back at the estate during celebrations. No one wants to see a bastard at a banquet. I never had a chance to brush up on my etiquette.”

“You learned for Minhyuk, though.”

“I tried for Minhyuk,” Taekwoon says. “And I am trying for Hakyeon.”

“I know,” Jaehwan says, expression softening for the briefest moment. “Pandering to the nobles has always been my duty, after all.”

“Rightfully so,” Taekwoon sighs. “Some of them would drink poison from the palm of your hand.”

“From the palm of Hakyeon’s hand,” Jaehwan corrects.

“Are we not the same?”

Jaehwan eyes him. “I suppose,” he allows.

They turn back to face the festivities.

“This morning in the gardens,” Taekwoon says quietly. “I was surprised by your behavior. You are hiding something from me.”

“It is nothing you should concern yourself with,” Jaehwan tries to dismiss him, but Taekwoon cuts him off.

“I am the champion now. I hold the same rank as you, and I refuse to be kept in the dark on matters concerning our king.”

“This is knowledge that could endanger Hakyeon’s life if the wrong person heard.”

“All the more reason for you to tell me. As champion, I need to know who and what to defend him from.”

“Taekwoon, you don’t understand—”

“I don’t.” Taekwoon fixes him with a hard stare. “So tell me. You’ve known me for almost all my life. You should know by now that I can be trusted when it comes to Hakyeon. I should not need to convince you further.”

Jaehwan takes a deep breath. “I should not be saying anything,” he warns, “but you are my friend, and I know you need good reason to stay. Hakyeon,” he pauses, worrying his lip with his teeth, “Hakyeon cannot bring himself to sit comfortably on the throne. He has been troubled for years, and he truly believes, now, that he cannot be a real king.”

“That’s bull,” Taekwoon frowns. “He is the only royal blood left. If he won’t bear the seal, then who will?”

“He isn’t, though.” Jaehwan purses his lips. The words sound forced, as if through gritted teeth. “The only royal blood left, I mean. We have reason to believe his younger brother lives.”

The blood drains from Taekwoon’s face. “What?”

Jaehwan’s voice dwindles to a whisper as he speaks. “You must not speak of this to anyone, Taekwoon. The third prince did not die at birth. I cannot prove it to you, but you must believe me. Only Hakyeon and I are privy to this knowledge.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Yet it is the truth. I would not be telling you this if I did not have good reason to believe it.”

Taekwoon lowers his voice. “If this is true, then Hakyeon is not the heir to the crown.”

Jaehwan nods, face pinched. “His supposed brother is first in line for the throne. There is power in threes. Without you, he would truly believe himself a fraud.”

“Where did you hear it?”

Jaehwan pauses. “I would prefer not to say.”

“Does Hakyeon know?”

“I informed him when I first heard.” Jaehwan smiles sardonically. “Do not worry. I may tease you, but I, too, am a loyal dog to Hakyeon. I would never betray him for his brother.”

“Do you know—”

“No.” Jaehwan shakes his head. “The king never told anyone where he sent him. It is better this way. There is tragedy tied to dragon’s blood.”

“That is not true,” Taekwoon says softly.

“If it was not true before, it is now,” Jaehwan tells him. “Look at what happened to Minhyuk. Look at what is happening to us now. This sort of kingdom is not something I would have ever wished upon Hakyeon’s shoulders.”

“I will not let him fall into ruin." Taekwoon glares. "I will do everything in my power to give him a long, happy reign.”

“Do you think I am not doing the same?” Jaehwan sighs. “We are mere mortals, though. How can we fight against magic and demons? How can we expect Hakyeon to fight against these things?” He gives Taekwoon a meaningful look. “He is a great king, but even great kings bow before gods. Even the first king died to dragon’s flame. A good king holds nothing to one who has received the love of the dragons. The Order realized this ten years before the rebellion, and in the face of destruction, it will not be long before the people realize it too.”

Taekwoon’s head spins.

“The third son,” he says, dread pooling in his gut.

“Exactly. _Dragon’s fire runs strongest in the veins of the first child, and magic dwells deepest in the heart of the third._ If the people knew there was a third brother, they would riot.”

“But this boy,” Taekwoon licks his lips, “would he not be able to save us? To save Hakyeon?”

Jaehwan looks at him sharply. “No. We cannot bring this to light. It would divide the kingdom.”

“You would have us all die to maintain the crown? There are _demons_ approaching.”

Jaehwan’s gaze turns hard. “I will not let us fall to ruin, nor will I allow Hakyeon to be dethroned.”

“Hakyeon is a good king. He will not be dethroned so easily.”

“Do you know nothing?” Jaehwan hisses. “If there is one thing our people will cling to, it is the magic of dragons. They treat dragons like gods, and they will continue to follow the line of dragons until the kingdom _rots_. Hakyeon may be a good king, but he is young, and it has not been so long that they have forgotten the brilliance of his twin brother. There is no saying they will stay loyal to him if they realize there is a boy with magic in his blood.”

“Would it really be so bad?” Taekwoon argues. “This is Hakyeon’s _life_. I would rather dethrone him and have him hate me until he dies than let him die to fucking _demons_.”

“Do you really think they would let him abdicate and leave? He has already been crowned, and his very existence would destabilize his brother’s rule. I think you should know by now what happens to those who threaten the throne.”

Taekwoon’s mouth goes dry.

“They will kill him.” Jaehwan’s voice is tight. “I will not let that happen. I have the skills to protect him, and I will do so until I die.”

“You truly love him,” Taekwoon realizes.

“Of course I do. I have said this before. I am his closest advisor, and the king did not choose me for the position without proof of my loyalty.”

“Proof?”

“I am the youngest Grand Scholar to be elected in the five hundred years the Order has existed. Surely you did not think I came into this position through the normal means.” He flashes a sardonic smile at Taekwoon’s expression. “Of course not. I gave a lot to be elected, and I’ve done many things I’m not proud of. The act that made me Grand Scholar, though, I do not regret.”

Taekwoon swallows. “What did you do?”

The smile fades. “I killed my predecessor—my own master.”

Taekwoon’s blood runs cold.

Jaehwan looks away. “Like I said, I am but a loyal dog to Hakyeon. I killed my own mentor for him. I will not betray him.”

Taekwoon is quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn't know.”

“I didn't expect you to,” Jaehwan says without bite. “You were at the edge of the kingdom, dealing with your own grief, and Jungsu did well preventing it from spreading.”

“Who else knows?”

“Hakyeon. Jungsu, too, but he's dead now. He dealt with everyone present at the time and framed the whole affair as an accident. It does not matter anymore. I chose the crown over the Order, and I was spared for it.” He sighs. “This is not what I wished to talk to you about. Hakyeon wants to see you in his chambers after this. There are many things he wishes to discuss. The tournament may be over, but the demons have not stopped.” He leaves after a final pat on the back. “My congratulations are honest, Taekwoon. Thank you.”

 

\--

 

When Taekwoon finally arrives at Hakyeon’s rooms, the hour is late and his skin is warm with wine. He nods briefly to the knight at the door—one of Eunkwang’s (“you fought well yesterday” is received with a pleased bow)—and waits for Hakyeon to let him in.

His daily visits to Hakyeon’s chambers have become a habit in the short time he has been in the capital since his return, but he has never come so late in the night.

“We don’t want any rumors flying,” Jaehwan had said dryly—almost mockingly.

When the guard finally returns to let him in, Hakyeon is already seated at his small bedside table, still dressed in his finery from the ceremonies. Upon closer inspection, he is pleasantly rumpled from the long day, although he makes no move to hide the disorder of his appearance from Taekwoon. The jacket is unlaced and draped over his shoulders, his rich yellow shirt crinkles at the collar, and Taekwoon spots a small stain on the his sleeve. Hakyeon notices him staring, and rolls the sleeve up as with an apologetic shake of his head.

“The plum wine was excellent,” he excuses himself. “I overindulged tonight.”

There is a line on his wrist where the skin is slightly darker than that of his arm and hand, revealing a sliver that had not been covered by his sleeve and the glove. Taekwoon tears his eyes away from the sight with slight difficulty, focusing instead on Hakyeon’s face.

“Should I return in the morning, then?”

“I haven’t overindulged to that extent,” Hakyeon says wryly, and Taekwoon wonders if he imagines the light flush of his face. The shaky cast of the candlelight makes it impossible to discern red on his skin.

Before he can look away, Hakyeon catches his gaze and a brief frown drifts over his lips, eyes questioning. Taekwoon knows he should look away, but his mouth feels dry as he gazes back, eyes roaming over the dips and planes of his features. When he looks closely, he can see Hakyeon’s eyes are bright, lips stained just the slightest bit darker than usual. He must have been telling the truth about the plum wine, Taekwoon thinks to himself, a bit dazed.

Hakyeon blinks and looks down at the tabletop.

“Here, have a seat,” he waves at the empty chair opposite him, and they are king and champion, nothing more. Taekwoon obeys.

“I wanted to discuss what actions to take from now on.” He produces a heavily-marked copy of a map and smooths it down on the table so they may see the product of their daily labors in ink crawling up and down the page. “Two messengers came in this morning with news from the southern coast. Most of the lords near the desert regions have let their subjects take refuge within their residences as I instructed, but many of the people refuse to go.”

“They’ve relied on the land to survive longer than there have been kings,” Taekwoon says softly, surveying the map and reading over the nearly-illegible scrawls he had left nearly a week ago. “They will not flee. They cannot.”

“They have no way of defending themselves.” Hakyeon grits his teeth in frustration. “They’ll be _killed_ , Taekwoon. I know it’s futile to try and force them off their land, but I can’t sit back and watch my people die.”

“What if the local lords sent their own soldiers out to defend the villages?”

“The soldiers barely know how to defend themselves, either. The only people who are allowed to study in-depth about the demons are the champion and the scholars of the Order.”

“Then we will have to teach them,” Taekwoon says slowly as the thought forms. “We can send out palace soldiers who already have already been taught, and they can spread defense strategies and such to the soldiers at each province, and they will be stationed at surrounding villages when they are ready. It would save resources if they taught the locals how to defend their own lands.”

“The number of demons emerging from the gate fluctuates by the day, but overall, their numbers are still low. They travel slowly, but nevertheless, we are running out of time.” Hakyeon furrows his brow as he studies the map. “How long do you think it would take to train the local soldiers?”

“We don’t have time for a thorough explanation, but we can teach them how to set up fire barriers. We will have to tell the local lords and ladies to melt down anything gold they have and distribute it throughout the provinces.”

“I can arrange for messengers to reach them in two days. As for our soldiers, if they travel in pairs, they can reach the southern coast in a week.” He pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Very well. It is not ideal, but we cannot afford to waste any more time. Who do you suggest we should send?”

“The king’s guard. The noblemen will not be happy to give up their gold, but they will obey soldiers who wear your fire on their chests.” He thinks for a moment. “These are temporary measures, though. We will have to send half of the guard while the other half trains with the remainder of your forces here in the palace.”

“Very well,” Hakyeon nods. “We don’t have much time. I would like you and Eunkwang to assemble a list of those you think are most prepared.”

“I have an idea,” Taekwoon starts and hesitates, “I have an idea about who to send.” He swallows, knowing the implications of his request. “I would like to personally depart with your soldiers in a days’ time.”

Hakyeon looks up sharply. “Taekwoon.”

Taekwoon matches him gaze for gaze. “Logically, I am the best choice to lead them. I have both combat experience and a thorough knowledge of demons. I may be your champion now, but your guard still has problems accepting me, and I know it. This is a good chance for me to prove myself to them.”

“I will not have you risking your neck out there just so my soldiers will acknowledge you. Besides, if you leave, who will help Eunkwang instruct the main force here?”

“Their acknowledgement is essential if you would have me leading them on the battlefield,” Taekwoon says. “And we have spoken about this issue before. It is not ideal, but Jaehwan and Eunkwang can combine their knowledge and experience while I am gone.” He pauses as Hakyeon takes in the idea.

“You’ve instructed Eunkwang’s troops well,” Hakyeon says slowly.

“Ryeowook taught me all he knew before he died,” Taekwoon replies.

“Taekwoon,” Hakyeon pauses. When he continues, his voice is softer. “Taekwoon, this is a good idea, I know, but I do not want you to go.”

Taekwoon refuses to let himself misunderstand. “I trust Eunkwang and Jaehwan.”

“That is not what I am worried about.” He frowns. “I just want to ascertain your motives. If this is about becoming my champion—”

He understands. “It is not. I knew that I would be committing myself to a lifetime at your service this morning when I stepped into the ring. If I needed to distance myself from you, I would say so.”

There is a long moment of silence as Hakyeon studies him, looking for a lie.

Finally, he sighs. “Do you know who you will take with you? They have to be willing to work under you for the next few weeks.”

“I do. I would like to bring along Sanghyuk, Hongbin, and Wonsik. They are the only ones from the capital to have seen a real demon.”

Hakyeon mulls. “You may take Sanghyuk and Hongbin, but not your apprentice.”

Taekwoon balks. “Hakyeon—”

“It will be my only condition in this matter,” Hakyeon says, laying his palm flat against the table.

“I trust Wonsik the most in this palace.” Taekwoon scowls. “We have worked together for years. He knows me better than any of the other soldiers.”

“That is exactly why I want him to stay. He will have valuable insights on Eunkwang and Jaehwan’s ideas, and he will create a link between you and the half of the guard that will not be under you in the next few weeks.”

“Hakyeon, I need him there with me.”

“I cannot have you alienating the rest of my soldiers, Taekwoon,” Hakyeon says calmly. “You may take anyone else you would like.”

After a moment of deliberation, Taekwoon nods. “Very well.”

Hakyeon stares down at the map again, the candlelight pulling his face into sharp slices of shadow and light. The lines of his face are more defined, and he looks tired. “Make sure you pick men and women you trust, Taekwoon. I do not want you to die out there.”

“I won’t die so easily,” Taekwoon says softly. “I will serve you through your reign, no matter how long you hold the throne.” _For the rest of your life,_ he thinks to himself.

Hakyeon’s expression is inscrutable when he replies, “Thank you.”

 

\--

 

Taekwoon inhales the scent of ripe peaches and stares through the darkness into the pond. He’s had the same dream every night for the past week, yet he still feels like he is drowning under the lilies, lungs pressing in until he gasps for breath.

A faint touch brushes his hand. He jerks away but the sensation chases him, warm and mockingly soft. Fingers, threading through his own, tracing up his hand to clasp around his wrist. The lilies crumble to dust and he chokes on the smell of burning flesh and iron blood, thick in his nostrils.

A thud of pain erupts in his gut and he doubles over, gasping as he topples out of the tree and, rather than falling like a stone, sinks slowly to the surface of the pond. He dips a hand into the water and when he draws it out, it shines red, so dark it is nearly black in the moonlight.

He can feel himself weakening, the strength slowly leeching from his limbs, and he can barely move as a gentle hand begins to card through his hair, warm knuckles brushing against his neck. The whisper of a breath ghosts over his cheek, and the water erupts as the dragon rises, bright and majestic and proud. It towers over him, eyes closed, and slowly brings its snout closer and closer, smelling of warm wood and smoke, until it presses into Taekwoon’s shoulder.

The dull pain in his abdomen sharpens into hot fire as the dragon lays its full weight onto his body, and the sensation is nearly too much. He can feel his eyes rolling back in his skull, limbs melting into rivers of heat, and his stomach—

He bolts upright in his bed, mouth open in an aborted scream. Closing his eyes, he fumbles in the sheets and presses his hand tentatively against the scars on his midsection, prodding each one until he is satisfied there is no pain. He takes deep breaths until his racing pulse slows in his chest.

The sky is still dark and the moon is a mere sliver in the sky, barely illuminating the room. Still, the gleam of silver and gold catches his eye, peeking out from where it is folded in swathes of cloth on his bedside table. He reaches out to grasp the knife, unwrapping it and running his fingers over the mangled flowers on the hilt and the boiled leather sheath.

He does not fall asleep again until the morning light bleeds over the horizon.

 

They leave at noon two days after the end of the tournament.

Hakyeon has dark bruises under his eyes, and Taekwoon knows he spent the previous day and night finalizing arrangements. Nevertheless, he is the picture of regality as he sends them off at the palace gates, dressed in long blue and gold robes with a circlet resting on his brow. He holds out a gloved hand for Taekwoon to kiss and steps back to watch wordlessly as the rest of the entourage finishes with their goodbyes.

“Master.” Wonsik comes forward next, a deep frown still etched into his face. “I am worried for you. Please, I beg you, let me come with you.”

“I can’t, Wonsik,” Taekwoon says as gently as he can. “The king and I both think it would be more beneficial for you to stay in the palace.”

The frown deepens. “I’m afraid I couldn’t follow your logic, Master. I can’t possibly see how I would be of use here, where I know nothing and can only train with other soldiers all day.”

“You have experience that they do not,” Taekwoon tells him. “Please be patient, Wonsik, and do your best to help Eunkwang devise sound strategies for our troops. We will soon be fighting in the greatest war in five hundred years.”

“Yes Master,” he murmurs, looking down.

“You are still troubled,” Taekwoon observes.

Wonsik does not meet his eyes as he confesses, “You are taking both Sanghyuk and Hongbin and other younger knights, yet you will not allow me to go. I can’t help but think you don’t think me sufficiently competent.”

“I taught you to be a good fighter, and a better scout,” Taekwoon tells him in a sharp voice. “You have many skills that none of the knights in this company possess.”

“Yet you made me pull out from the tournament,” Wonsik says, ears flaming with shame. “Master, why did you bring me here? I feel as if I have no place in the capital.”

Taekwoon’s chest clenches with guilt. Behind him, he hears the clink of armor and jingle of metal as the soldiers begin to mount.

“I brought you here because I trust you,” he says, but Wonsik does not look convinced. He sighs, “I’m sorry, Wonsik, but I must go. We don’t have time to discuss this now.”

“I’m sorry, Master.” Wonsik’s eyes are tight as he bows. “I did not mean to detain you. Travel safely.”

He backs away before Taekwoon can speak again.

“Champion.”

He turns to face Hongbin. The tilt of his chin is as high as always, but his gaze is more probing than baleful. Behind him, the rest of the soldiers watch with hawk-like eyes, and he knows they are observing him, waiting to see how he will lead them.

He swings into his saddle and rides to the front of the group. Beyond the palace gates, he can hear the cheers and whistles of people lining the streets to see them off.

The last time he left the palace, the road had been shrouded in silence and darkness and pain, with only the moon and his father’s dead eyes to witness from above as he clutched at the last vestiges of his pride.

No one rides ahead of him this time, but he can still imagine the ghost of a small figure, graceful even in the face of death. The faces around him fade until he fancies he can see the sea, an endless ripple of waves marred only by a single boat, and he smells fragrant flowers mingling with salt and tar.

 _Back straight, child_ , his mother’s voice whispers in his ear, and he obeys.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if it got kind of confusing? as you can see, there are a lot of secrets left to reveal :) look forward to mirror iii next update!! thank you so much to everyone who has been keeping up with this fic/left kudos and comments! you've been so supportive and encouraging ;;
> 
> 8/16/17: hey guys i've had a busy few weeks with exams and various other things and i won't be able to post the next chapter this weekend. idk how many of you will see this but if you do i'll post more updates on my [tumblr](http://heartsighcd.tumblr.com) about how mirror iii is going. as always, thanks for being patient with me!


	6. Mirror III: Jaehwan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god thank you for waiting uni's been eating up all my time and this chapter is LONG.
> 
> warnings: there's a scene with pretty graphic violence that ends in death, attempted murder, more off-screen death, discussion of suicide/self-sacrifice, and also adults manipulating/blackmailing a child (as well as each other)
> 
> also, just in case this is confusing: the spiral peaks is the ancestral home of the royal family, but obviously the king/queen and their children live in the royal palace. all distant relatives of the royal family live in spiral peaks, so, yes, jaehwan is distantly related to hakyeon (please remember hakyeon is an exception to family tradition etc. because he took his mother's surname)

There is another story about another boy of another profession, but really, all stories are just mirrors of one another. If you look closely, what appears to be complete is just another start within the body of a tale that never really ends.

Long ago, there was a war between two kings that tore the kingdom apart with the force of their greed. Conflict ravaged the land, leaving death and grief and fire in its wake, until finally one king’s son killed the other, and a war that began with avarice was ended in the same way.

The surviving king took his own nephew and gave him a choice: pledge his family’s eternal loyalty to the crown, and he would not follow his father in death. This is the privilege of the winning side; they set both the conditions of surrender and the punishments when surrender does not come.

“Serve your king well. Give him all your heart, and you will be content,” Jaehwan’s father tells him when he is young, as he learned from his own father, his father from his father’s father, and all who came before him. This is the curse—the burden—of the Lees of the Spiral Peaks, and thus it is Jaehwan’s burden as well. They are no longer royalty, and yet they retain enough of dragon’s blood to feel the sharp sting of defeat.

Jaehwan is his father’s third son. He is not the first, nor the second, nor the fourth. His father is fortunate for having sired three children; the king had not been so lucky.

In Jaehwan’s household, the first son inherits all that once belonged to his father. The second son takes up the sword to defend the king. The third son, though, has power far beyond that of wealth and strength, for he is the third and magic is always strongest in threes, as decreed by the last dragon.

When Jaehwan is of age, he goes to the royal scholars to learn about the very laws of the earth that stitched his existence into the fabric of the world. It is only fitting, they say, that a third son study magic. They do not tell him the real reason he is sent to the Order, but he learns it by himself anyway. If the third son of the Spiral Peaks becomes a scholar, he will not want for the throne of the king.

 

\--

 

Hakyeon summons Jaehwan to his rooms the moment the palace gates shut behind Taekwoon.

“My rooms,” he says, turning on his heel so his robes swirl around his legs. He peels off his gloves, stuffing them into a pocket, and lets his sleeves hang over his hands. Jaehwan has no doubt that they are clenched beneath the cloth.

“Yes, Majesty.” Jaehwan bows, falling into step just behind him, angled slightly to the right. In public, he is always careful to show respect and deference.

In Hakyeon’s rooms, though, he does not need to give any trite performances.

“What the fuck, Hakyeon?” he hisses the moment the doors are closed and a guard is posted outside the antechamber.

Hakyeon sits at his writing desk and leans back, sighing. “I had to act quickly.”

“You could have at least informed me you were sending your newly-instated champion away with _half your guard_.” Jaehwan flings up his arms. “He’s just barely started to curry favor in the palace again, and now he’s leaving already? Your own palace has been stripped of half its best knights. The people will worry.”

“I cannot leave the south undefended,” Hakyeon says. “They will _die_ , Jaehwan. This kingdom has grown complacent after the gate was sealed, and now no one even knows how to fight against demons anymore. I may not be the rightful king, but I will protect my people.”

“You cannot seriously still believe that, Hakyeon,” Jaehwan groans in frustration. “You are the king, Hakyeon. You have been a fine king. I know that you believe yourself an insufficient heir because you are the second son, but that is based on nothing but legends.”

“Legends that turned out to be true.”

“There is more to being a king than war and magic and fire.” Jaehwan runs a hand down his face. “You think we could just bring any man who claims blood relations and set him down in the throne? You were raised to be a king, Hakyeon, and we both know it.”

Hakyeon looks out the window, hands folded in his lap. “Is this why you advised me to bring Taekwoon back? So we would have a true champion backing us, even if I was not a true king.”

“Partly,” Jaehwan admits. “It was necessary.”

“It was cruel.”

“You said you would protect the people.”

Hakyeon sighs. “I did.”

“Do you want to tell me now why you sent your champion to the south?”

Hakyeon shrugs. “We talked. I expressed concerns over the lack of protection against demons in the southern regions. Taekwoon volunteered to command a group of knights and teach the local lords to set up proper defenses for their lands and their vassals. I agreed it was a good plan, and I suspect he did not wish to stay in the palace, so I gave him permission to leave. There, was that explanation satisfactory?”

“You trust him to command them?”

“I trust him to devote himself to me. My guard is loyal. They will follow him for his devotion, if nothing else.”

“You trust that he will follow you always, then?”

“I have good reason to.” Hakyeon’s hands tighten into fists. “He loves me, still.”

“I know,” Jaehwan says. “Eunkwang can tell too, no doubt. Anyone who knew how you were before could see it, probably. He is not subtle.” He licks his lips and carefully asks, “Does that make you happy?”

Hakyeon does not answer.

“He is not as thick as his stubborn honesty implies,” Jaehwan tells him. “He will know if you have any lingering affections.”

“I know. I went to great lengths so he would not misunderstand.”

Jaehwan waits as Hakyeon blinks down at the tabletop.

“I don’t think he will ever touch me again in my life, and still, he pledged eternal loyalty to me.”

“You were the one who sent him away,” Jaehwna reminds him. “Your father would have kept him, if you had asked.”

“I _know_.” He closes his eyes briefly.

“Hakyeon.” Jaehwan can’t help but soften.

“No matter.” Hakyeon clears his throat. He sits a little straighter. “This is not what I wished to discuss when I called you. I would like you to do me a favor.”

Jaehwan knows that tone of voice. It commands obedience. “What is it?”

“I need you to bring me the book you promised tonight.” Hakyeon looks at him significantly, glancing at the door, and even now, Jaehwan realizes, he is afraid there are eavesdroppers. “You know which one I mean.”

Jaehwan swallows. For all that he is Hakyeon’s dog, he is also the Grand Scholar, and the thought of what he has been asked to do weighs heavy on his conscience. _It’s not as if it’s the first time_ , he thinks dryly.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you—”

“You shouldn’t.” Jaehwan can’t help but sound bitter. “You shouldn’t. When it comes to your own safety—if I had the option to withhold it from you, I would.”

“It’s necessary. I must do everything in my power to save the kingdom.”

“And what will become of you after it is all over?”

Hakyeon doesn’t answer, but they both know the answer.

“I’ll bring it,” Jaehwan tells him. “Just—please, promise me you will try everything else first.”

“I promise,” Hakyeon says softly. “Thank you, Jaehwan.”

“Anything for you.” He bows when he leaves and pretends not to see Hakyeon flinch at the words.

 

\--

 

When Jaehwan is five years old, his father takes him to court for the first time. He lives in the capital for half the year, spending the other half at his ancestral home in Spiral Peaks. At the palace, he meets the royal family, the recently-widowed king and his two sons, Minhyuk and Hakyeon. There, too, he meets Taekwoon, whose sisters have just married two remote cousins from the Lee family, even farther removed from the throne than Jaehwan.

As a boy, Jaehwan is small. His legs are short, his fingers stubs, and his feet swing high above the ground when he sits on his mother’s lap. He can never keep up with the older children when they run through halls and scramble through gardens and clamber up trees, and only Hakyeon is kind enough to wait for him to rest as the others pulls ahead, howling all the way.

When the queen goes away on a trip to her home in the Silver Isles, she takes Hakyeon with her, and there is no one to tell the other boys to stop when Jaehwan is bent double trying to catch his breath. He tries desperately to keep up, but they soon leave him far behind, and he must seek his father’s knee for consolation.

“My smallest son,” his father calls him fondly, running a hand through his unruly hair. He loves his third child dearly. “My hot-blooded boy, so small but for his ears,” he says with a fond pat to his round cheek, “They are quite well-suited for listening to stories.” And then, with a mischievous tug at said ears, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were vases, they could hold so much water,” and Jaehwan squirms in his grasp, squealing at the top of his lungs.

That night, his father lulls him to sleep with stories of dragons and kings and fire. He leaves with a gentle brush of fingers to his son’s ear just as Jaehwan slips into his dreams.

The day Hakyeon comes back, he brings smooth seashells for each of them. Jaehwan cups his against the side of his head and imagines he holds the entire ocean in his ears.

 

Jaehwan has heard the stories many times, and they all say the same thing. They say the first dragon king courted the dragon for three days to earn its favor. At the end of each day, as the sun lay dying on the earth’s edge, the dragon gave the king a gift.

On the first day, it forged him a golden sword that would never dull.

On the second day, it crafted him a book that told the fate of the world.

On the third day, it promised him a victory in the last battle he would ever fight.

When he died, he gave his first son all three of these gifts.

His son was a wise man. The sword, he gifted to his most loyal companion and protector for all the world to see. The gate burned an eternal testament to the war his father had won. The book, though, he hid in a library and protected from the prying eyes of the people forever.

 

Jaehwan is the first student the Grand Scholar has taken under his wing since his ascension to the position twenty years prior. He would not have taken on a student at all if it had not been the third child of Lord Lee himself. Even if it is disgraced, there is power in dragon’s blood. The Grand Scholar is wizened and shrewd and keen-eyed and sharp-tongued and he tells Jaehwan that as an apprentice, he must do the tasks that his master bids him. His first week, the Grand Scholar sends him to dine with the other recent initiates and tells him to listen.

He sits with six other girls and boys of the same age, all of them wearing white belts around the distinctive yellow robes of the Order of Royal Scholars, and he talks and laughs too much to hear what they say. Upon his return to his chambers, his master asks him to recount each of their names, ages, masters, and days of experience. When Jaehwan cannot answer, he receives five lashes on each palm from a flexible bamboo rod.

For the first months of his apprenticeship, Jaehwan does not read a single book. Instead, his master teaches him to how to walk with silent steps, how to mask his breath when he stands still, how to pass locks of reasonable complexity, and how to keep his ears open and tongue still when he listens. It is only after he recounts, in great detail, the secrets of his peers, two scullery maids, and five members of the king’s private council that his master allows him to begin his studies.

 

When Jaehwan is sworn in, he learns the truth of a tale his father has told him since he was young, in hopes that the mystery of a restricted library would spark an interest in a lifetime of learning. He is fourteen when his master deems him worthy of the mark. They dress him in yellow robes loose enough to let the breeze hit his ankles. During the ceremony, he shakes with excitement and nerves in the courtyard outside the palace library.

In the final years of his apprenticeship, he will learn that the Order is not what it seems. It does not deal in knowledge or treasure, but in secrets. He learns his first that day, when his master unwraps the white sash around his robes and binds Jaehwan to him for the rest of his living days, leading him into the restricted inner catacombs under the library.

In the legends, the dragon gave the first dragon king three gifts—a sword, a book, and a fire. His son took it upon himself to hide the book among thousands of its kind in the safety of his own home.

Jaehwan breathes in the musty air and sees the cracked leather of old tomes and they tell him that the legends are not true. You see, it is not one book among thousands that holds the secrets of the future, but an entire library that spans the body of the palace itself, held under lock and key and bedrock and steel. There is a book for every monarch since the first, each one only allowed to be opened at the start of a new reign, and the sum of their knowledge is more than legends could ever tell.

With needles and chisels and ink, his master carves a single band of black around the girth of his forearm that will mark him until the day he dies. It is the first of many such marks. Jaehwan will receive his second when he becomes a journeyman, and another when he earns master. Only the Grand Master carries the fourth.

He pricks Jaehwan’s finger and lets his blood drip into a bowl of wine, and when he drinks, it is not wine that touches his tongue, but the blood of thousands of brothers and sisters who came before him, all dedicated to the same cause, sworn to a lifetime of protecting and learning.

Finally, his master promises, holding out the first open book, the secrets of the world will be his. With the unbearable, itching curiosity of a child, Jaehwan leans forward and reads.

 

\--

 

Wonsik is an enigma. He trains in the morning with the guard and spends his afternoons in Hakyeon’s chambers poring over books and maps. He greets Jaehwan with a smile and an appropriately deep bow every time they meet, and he listens to Hakyeon’s instructions with meticulous care and wide-eyed reverence. He is not surly like his master, nor is he particularly skilled with the sword. He walks with the easy grace of a warrior, yet he loses more spars than he wins, and Jaehwan barely remembers the single match he had taken part in during the tournament before Taekwoon forcibly removed him from the roster.

There is only one instance in which he sees Wonsik without the friendly exterior. In the early morning, before the sun has emerged from the horizon, Jaehwan stalks the halls and sees a dark figure sitting among the peach trees, legs folded and head bent. Wonsik surely hears him, but makes no move to acknowledge his presence.

After a moment, he continues on his way, footsteps deliberately hard against cold marble so that Wonsik will know he was not trying to sneak past. Not that he will necessarily care.

 

“He is friendly and well-disciplined,” Eunkwang shrugs when Jaehwan brings it up with him. “Taekwoon asked me to watch over his training while he was away, and I must admit, Wonsik is very skilled at his craft.”

“He doesn’t seem like an outstanding fighter,” Jaehwan observes. “His sword technique is clean and simple, but it’s hardly extraordinary.”

Eunkwang laughs, a twinkle in his eye, but all he says is: “He is not a soldier, that is true.”

“Still, he seems out of place in the palace. He would have done better riding out with Taekwoon.”

Eunkwang merely shrugs. “Taekwoon asked me to keep him here, and I took it as a favor for a friend. He commands well, and his opinions on the barricades has been quite enlightening. I wouldn’t question it too much, if I were you.”

Even as he says it, he cuts a sly glance towards Jaehwan. They both know he wouldn’t be the king’s sole remaining advisor if he gave up so easily.

 

“I don’t understand,” Jaehwan says the next night, as he drops off the first tome in Hakyeon private chambers and lingers by the writing desk.

“You don’t understand what?” Hakyeon asks absently as he pores over page after page of notes written in dozens of different hands, nose wrinkled in concentration. Jaehwan ignores the tightening in his gut whenever Hakyeon flips a page. He hopes he won’t find answers in this volume.

“Why did Taekwoon leave his apprentice behind?” Jaehwan muses. “Out of all the knights in the palace, I would think he trusts his own student the most.”

Hakyeon doesn’t look up from the book. “He wanted to bring him. I forbade him.”

“You _what?_ ” Jaehwan nearly squawks. “ _You_ told him to leave the apprentice behind? Why?”

“We discussed this before,” Hakyeon gives a carefully casual shrug. “Taekwoon has only recently been instated, and his hold over the palace is tentative at best. I thought it best for him to leave behind someone in his place, so it does not seem as if he is abandoning me already.”

Jaehwan narrows his eyes, but Hakyeon gives him a hard look, indicating the matter is to be dropped. For now.

 

The fourth time Jaehwan sees Wonsik sitting in the peach grove, he veers out of the walkway to stand beneath the trees and watch from a few steps away. Wonsik’s eyes open to stare at him inquisitively.

“Grand Scholar,” he murmurs, bending at the waist.

“You always meditate here, every morning. Why?”

Wonsik’s tone is respectful when he replies, “You always walk here, every morning. Why?”

“I’m curious,” Jaehwan says bluntly.

Wonsik relaxes back against the rough wood behind him. “I enjoy sitting among the trees. It reminds me of home.”

“The village you came from?”

“My master’s cabin.”

Jaehwan blinks. “Are you not angry at him?”

“I am, but this and that are two different matters.” Wonsik’s eyes flick up to study his face. “You look upset.”

“Confused,” Jaehwan corrects.

“Why?”

“I must say I can’t figure you out. What type of man is your master?”

“You’ve known him longer than I,” Wonsik points out.

“You’ve known him more recently,” Jaehwan counters, and Wonsik only shrugs.

“He is a man of many secrets, some of which he tells me, some of which I stumble upon on accident, and some of which I do not know.”

“He was never good at keeping secrets.”

Wonsik shrugs again. “Then perhaps I am an amateur at discerning them. I’ve always read nature better than people.”

“Why are you here?” Jaehwan asks.

“It reminds me of home.”

“No,” Jaehwan sighs, “Not in the peach grove. Why are you still in the palace? You are useless here. Taekwoon has taught you nothing of the champions’ secrets, and you can barely hold your own against the knights that Eunkwang has given you to lead.”

“I am not a knight,” Wonsik says reasonably. “It’s only to be expected my sword work is lacking.”

Jaehwan huffs in frustration, repeating, “Then why are you here?”

“That is a question I don’t know the answer to,” Wonsik says quietly, expression indiscernible in the near-dark. “My master told me that he and the king had decided to leave me behind, and he would say nothing else on the matter.”

Jaehwan frowns.

“It is what it is,” Wonsik picks at the grass absently. “We’re in the middle of a war. It’s hardly the time to question the king about one misplaced apprentice.”

“A misplaced apprentice of the royal champion,” Jaehwan says. “Something is wrong with Hakyeon, and I will find out what it is.”

Wonsik hums, eyes sliding half-closed. “If you wish. For now, though, I am sure it is too early in the morning to be disturbing His Majesty in his chambers. Would you like to join me here until the sun rises?”

Jaehwan slips his hand from the knotted wood, shaking his head. “I must refuse. There is much business to attend to.”

Wonsik nods, inclining at the waist again. “Grand Master.”

After a moment of hesitation, Jaehwan nods. “Wonsik.”

His eyes slip closed all the way as Jaehwan retreats back to the cold marble of the walkway.

 

\--

 

In the Order, there are only three laws that govern the catacombs, dictated by the second dragon king when he built the library under his palace.

One, each book spans the entirety of one monarch's rule.

Two, at the start of a new reign, the dragon king will open, for the first time, exactly one volume.

Three, once a volume has been closed, it may never be opened again.

The role of the scholars of the Order, Jaehwan learns as he grows older, is to transcribe and take note of each event that passes within each volume. At the death of a king, it is the duty of the Grand Scholar to close the current volume, and it is the duty of the new king to open the next.

There are whispers that the world will end when the last book closes. The first book opened for the first king, the second for his son, and so on, and it didn’t occur to the Order until nearly a century later that the library was not endless, and that there would be a final king. After hundreds of years written in uncontested ink, there is nothing more terrifying than the unknown that lies beyond the last word. As Jaehwan devours volume after volume, he can feel the tension beneath his feet, thrumming and threatening to tear through the palace when it snaps.

When Jaehwan has his first bar inked into his arm, his master sets him to work listening. Over the years, his tread has become quiet, his words prodding, and his eyes sharp. He lays his ear gently to doors and holds the secrets he receives close to his heart. Over the course of his five-year apprenticeship, Jaehwan is only caught twice.

 

“—cannot tell him. It will ruin everything we have built.”

Jaehwan inches forward, straining to better hear the low voices on the other side of the hedge. He ignores the twinge in his back from crouching for so long.

“Then what reason am I supposed to give for him to take lessons from me?” The champion’s voice hardens into a hiss. “He will be suspicious. You know he has had a wary disposition ever since his mother passed.”

“It does not matter. Only I am supposed to be in possession of this knowledge.”

“What, because you read it in a bloody book? He won’t be a very good king if he can’t command his people.”

“He doesn’t need self-esteem to rule.”

“Perhaps not, but he needs it to rule _well_.”

A pause of silence. Jaehwan itches to raise his eyes and peek above the hedge, but he keeps his head down.

“It will not matter when there is only one left.”

“You cannot be serious. They are your own—what was that?”

Several things happen at once. Jaehwan hears a rustle behind him as something bumps into his legs. He spins to see Hakyeon’s wide eyes staring back at him. His cheeks are flushed with exertion, hair tangled with leaves, and there’s some kind of scarf folded into a makeshift pack on his back. Now that Jaehwan is looking, he can see the crumbled hole in the palace wall that Hakyeon just tumbled from.

“What was what?”

Hakyeon’s head snaps up at the sound of the champion’s voice.

“I heard something. Stay behind me.”

Hakyeon looks back down, taking in Jaehwan’s appearance with a calculating stare. Jaehwan opens his mouth to explain, but his voice doesn’t emerge, drowned out by the frantic thump of his heart.

Before he can make even a squeak, Hakyeon stands up, expression melting into earnest sheepishness. The pack drops down onto the ground with a soft thump.

“Your Highness! What were you doing down there?”

“Oh, you know,” he gestures a bit, cheeks flushing convincingly, “there’s a hole in the wall, and it leads just out into the city.”

Behind the foliage, his hand rests on Jaehwan’s shoulder, pinning him there with the gentlest of touches.

“You go out often?”

“Just one or twice before today,” Hakyeon says quickly. From the subtle tightening of his hand on Jaehwan’s shoulder, it’s a lie. He wonders what the second prince could possibly be doing outside the palace walls.

Hakyeon is interrupted before he can explain. “If you will, Hakyeon, my champion and I were having an important conversation before you arrived. We can speak more of this matter later, if time permits.”

Hakyeon’s gaze drops, and he executes a quick bow. “Yes, Majesty. My things—”

He bends down in the guise of retrieving his pack, and stares Jaehwan straight in the eye, shoving him towards the same opening he just tumbled out of. Before Jaehwan can even thrash in protest, he is falling out on the other side.

He waits two beats, but Hakyeon never emerges after him, and eventually he walks along the walls until he reaches a gate again, treading on soft feet.

 

When Jaehwan is seventeen years old, not yet grown into his new height, he finds a crumbling section of wall hidden behind an old oak growing beside the king’s window. He crouches in it late at night and wraps his arms around his knees, waiting to hear the soft murmurs of conversation. Over the years, he has learned to play the game of patience well.

Presently, he hears a knock, a call of “Enter,” and footsteps against marble, the clink of iron in soldier’s boots.

“Majesty,” comes the champion’s voice, “the Lady Jo has come to request your audience.”

A soft sound of curiosity. “Let her in, then.”

Shuffling, a creak of a doorway, cursory formalities, and Jaehwan hears, “Majesty. Thank you for receiving me.”

He jolts involuntarily. It’s been years since he last heard that voice, but he remembers it from his childhood, calling rowdy children down from tall trees, telling stories of the mountains and the seaside, and admonishing the older boys for pulling on Jaehwan until he fell and scraped his palms.

“I come bearing unfortunate news,” says Taekwoon’s mother.

“Well, I won’t lie," the king says, "this is quite a surprise. In all the years you have lived at court, I do believe this is your third audience with me, and the first without your husband.”

“There is a certain level of discretion required for what I am about to tell you. I do not trust anyone in the palace but myself to impart this information on you.”

“I must admit I am quite curious as to what you think I do not know of goings in my own palace.” The king sounds amused.

“Yes, well,” the sound of a sigh, “I might as well get to the point. There have been plans of a rebellion within the Order, and they plan to act soon.”

The king chuckles softly. “You thought I was not aware?”

“There is more.”

“I suppose you were planning on naming the courtiers they’ve convinced to join their cause? There are countless noblemen and women who would jump at the chance to kick me from the throne, and I am quite aware of who they are. Your own husband places quite high on that list.”

“I know the next book is the last one.”

A beat of silence, and then there is the sound of a sharp inhale. Jaehwan’s own eyes widen a moment later as he realizes what book she speaks of, and he claps a hand over his own mouth to stifle the gasp.

“How many know?”

“Just me. No need to worry,” she says, mockingly lighthearted, “The Order still keeps the throne’s greatest secret, and thus I have come to parlay.”

“There will be no parlay. You do not hold control over me or my blood.” The king’s voice is cold. “You have nothing to bargain with, and I can have your head for treason anytime I want.”

A hum of agreement. “I suppose you can kill as many courtiers as you like, but you cannot touch the Order. The people will not look kindly upon you if you slaughter the entirety of the royal scholars for no reason.”

“There will be a reason.”

“What, treason? You cannot afford to tell the kingdom you have a library of books that foretell the future, as word would get out that your son is to be the last king. The Order thinks we are all destined for death, Majesty, and they are desperate. They truly believe the dragons have abandoned us.”

“And you? What is your motive for joining their cause?”

A snort. “I grew up raised on stories of the old gods. My only mistake was marrying into an old family with a fool of a husband.”

“And what do you gain by telling me this?”

“You see, I have a bargain to make. Surely you know my son, Majesty?”

"Your son the future champion."

"The very one. I love my son dearly, and he does not deserve to suffer for the crimes of his parents. I want you to promise me you will not kill him when the rebellion comes."

"And how do I know he is not complicit in the rebel activities?"

Jaehwan misses the next words as a hand wraps around his mouth, cold steel pricking at his neck.

“Speak so much as a word, and the king and Lady Jo will have me slit your throat,” the champion’s voice breathes into his ear. “Understand?”

Jaehwan nods, hands trembling.

“Good. Move.”

A knee shoves into his back, guiding him around the building away from the guards. They walk to a room adjacent to the window he had been crouched under, and the champion searches his pockets and binds his hands with a scarf before locking him inside.

“The king will want to see you when his guest has left.” The champion raises an eyebrow before he closes the door. “Even if you escape, I know who you are, boy.”

Jaehwan swallows and nods and waits in silence. Presently, after what could be no more than an hour, the champion returns with the king. Jungsu gives him an evaluating look and settles into an armchair by the door. The champion unknots Jaehwan’s wrists and backs out of the room to give them some privacy.

“What a small scholar,” the king says, and Jaehwan’s tongue ties itself in loops when he opens his mouth. “If I remember correctly, you took the vow at a very young age. Precocious, aren’t you?”

Jaehwan swallows, showing his bare forearm.

“I remembered correctly,” Jungsu sighs, leaning back in his armchair. He folds his fingers over themselves, placing them in his lap. “You read my fate?”

Jaehwan nods.

“You know that there is one book left.”

Jaehwan nods again. One more book for one more king.

"Aren't you curious as to who will open that book upon my death?" Jungsu narrows his eyes, and Jaehwan does not dare respond. After a moment, he shrugs. " _I_ am curious. I will never live to see one of my sons open the final book, and I don't even know which son it will be."

Jaehwan has been an apprentice for a long time. He has read Jungsu's book, and he knows the words by heart, having burned them into his brain over hours of reading.

 _A prince will die_.

Just one.

“I know who you are, boy,” Jungsu says. “Lord Lee was lucky indeed, to have such a bright child.” He grips Jaehwan’s chin with strong fingers and guides his face up so he may gaze upon him thoughtfully. “You know what the price of treason is for a member of the Lee family, yes?”

Jaehwan can feel the blood drain from his face.

“Good.” He releases Jaehwan’s chin. “Now, Ryeowook told me when he caught you, and I know you did not quite hear the terms of my agreement with Lady Jo.” He props his cheek on a hand thoughtfully. “I could release you with a light slap of the hand and trust that you will never be caught again, but you see, I’ve been in need of a hand in some parts of the palace that I cannot reach.”

Jaehwan flinches, fingers twisting in his sleeves. “What,” he rasps, and Jungsu looks almost surprised at the sound of his voice. He clears his throat, “What would you have me do?”

“Ah, now that’s not quite fair is it? How about we strike up a deal, boy—you give me something I want, and I will give you something in return.” Jungsu tilts his head in his hand, a cunning smile curling wide over his mouth. “It’s a shame you never got to hear the end of the conversation. I’m sure you’re curious. Why don’t I tell you exactly what Lady Jo promised me in return for immunity for her son?”

Jaehwan isn’t fooled. If there is one thing that he has learned from his apprenticeship, it is that information can be dangerous. Still, he nods.

“And what will you have me give?”

“I am the king, yet your master holds something that I cannot ever have. I must admit—reading my own fate is not enough.” Jungsu leans forward, eyes sharp. “I want access to everything in the catacombs.”

“I cannot bring you inside without someone noticing,” Jaehwan protests. “They guard the doors every hour of the day.”

“Of course not,” Jungsu waves a hand. “You will bring each volume out for me, one at a time.”

“No,” Jaehwan shakes his head, edging away, “No, please, anything but this. My master would have my head if he ever found out.”

Jungsu seizes his wrist, grip strong. “You have no choice. I will tell you a secret now, and you will return to your master and tell him I was alone for the evening and retired to my bed without speaking a word.” He jerks Jaehwan’s arm, hard. “This is not a choice. You will be of use to me, or you will be a hindrance, and you can be sure that I will execute you and your entire family in the way my ancestor promised yours if I ever heard word that the Grand Scholar has learned of Lady Jo’s betrayal. Do you understand?”

Jaehwan’s breath hitches, and Jungsu seems to take that as acceptance, for he beckons Jaehwan forward, a secret on his tongue.

“Remember,” he says, “the moment you hide this from your master, you will be colluding with me to quell the rebellion.”

Jaehwan knows, then, that he can never tell anyone, not even his master or the Order or Hakyeon or Minhyuk or Eunkwang. Knowledge is dangerous, and Jaehwan holds far too much knowledge for a seventeen-year-old boy still gawky in his limbs. Nevertheless, he pushes his head forward, tilting to the side so the king may speak in his ear.

 

\--

 

The demons arrive three nights before the new moon, when there is barely a sliver of silver against a sky the color of sticky pitch. Eunkwang has been building barriers and raising tents in the city itself to shelter any who sought safety in the capital, but the gates are still open for stragglers, and so the demons enter.

Jaehwan is standing outside the North Gate with Eunkwang and Wonsik discussing alterations for the patrols along the ramparts when he hears the distinctive sound of the warning horns in the distance. For a moment, the palace stills in frozen silence, and then everything around him bursts into a flurry of action and panic.

“Do you have any gold on you?” Eunkwang yells over the commotion, and Jaehwan nods, holding up the knife he has taken to carrying around in his pocket.

Eunkwang frowns, obviously dissatisfied at how small the weapon is, but he knows Jaehwan has become a competent fighter in the years since the rebellion. He unsheathes his sword, its spine newly inlaid with gold. It is a flimsy defense at best—the gold is thin enough to flake off with overuse—but there was a shortage of the precious metal, even in the palace, and any more metal would disrupt the balance of the blade.

“We can’t close the palace gates,” Eunkwang says tightly before Jaehwan can shout for the guards. “There are too many shadows right now. It’s impossible to see if anything got past us in the night. For all we know, we could be locking Hakyeon in there with a demon and no means of escape.”

“We should increase his guard detail,” Wonsik interjects. “At least until morning. Demons are stronger at nighttime. Do you know where he is?”

Jaehwan curses, thinking of the book still in Hakyeon’s study. “Yes, but I need to go to him. He won’t open the door for anyone but me right now.”

“Wonsik, you accompany the Grand Scholar and take care of the guards,” Eunkwang orders, “I’ll take care of cleaning out the rest of the city.”

“Hakyeon is in his rooms,” Jaehwan mutters as he and Wonsik dash through the gates, calling for guards as they go. “We can’t let anyone in there right now, whether they are guards or not.”

“What if something gets in there and we don’t see?” Wonsik protests. “We need to be in there with him to protect him.”

“I will do it, then,” Jaehwan says. “I’ll go in, but no one else must follow.”

Wonsik frowns. “Can you fight off a demon by yourself?”

“Probably not,” Jaehwan admits, “but I can call for help and keep it distracted from Hakyeon long enough for the guards to break down the door.”

“Fine,” Wonsik says, still frowning.

By the time they reach the courtyard outside Hakyeon’s rooms, a cluster of soldiers has gathered in a loose ring.

“What’s going on?” Jaehwan tries to demand, striding forward, but Wonsik slaps a hand over his mouth before he can finish. Jaehwan wrenches his hand off just as he sees the dark mass of limbs writhing in the shadows under Hakyeon’s window.

Wonsik pushes his way through the crowd of soldiers, and thankfully they are all well-trained enough not to call for Hakyeon or worse, scream.

“Stand back,” Wonsik says, carefully flat, holding out a hand and steadying Jaehwan.

“That’s a fucking demon,” Jaehwan hisses back, “You need to kill it with gold or—”

“Fire,” Wonsik finishes. “I know.”

The soldiers edge back as the writhing mass of its body advances forward slowly, shadows plunging in and out of the edge of the lantern light. Its mouth yawns open, a gaping hold that is darker than dark, and Jaehwan can see its teeth, cruel and sharp. He shivers involuntarily.

“Give me a lantern,” Wonsik tells the woman to his right, voice placid and inflectionless. “Now,” he says in the same tone when she hesitates. “I can kill it.”

The demon is less than twenty paces before them now. The firelight shivers violently as one of the lanterns changes hands to reach Wonsik, who has drawn out the large staff on his back. Looking closely, Jaehwan realizes that it’s not a staff at all, but a longbow. Wonsik strings it with a practiced motion and produces an arrow from the canister—some sort of modified quiver—on his back and dips it into the fire. The cloth catches fire unnaturally quickly, probably due to some inflammatory substance coating the head.

“Stand back,” Wonsik says, raising his voice just high enough for the rest of the knights to hear. He draws and aims in a single fluid motion. The treated leather of his gloves protects his hands from the flames.

“This garden is too small. We’ll be trapped if you set anything on fire,” Jaehwan warns, and the demon swings its head towards the note of urgency in his voice.

“I won’t miss,” Wonsik says simply.

The demon drifts forward again, and Wonsik shoots. The arrow flies true, striking the monster square in its chest, and Jaehwan watches in horror as its entire being lights up in a bright fire that quickly disintegrates to ash. When he looks back, Wonsik already has a second arrow nocked to the bowstring.

“Go,” Wonsik tells Jaehwan as soon as the fire dies, “Make sure the door is locked behind you.”

“The rest of the palace—” Jaehwan starts, but Wonsik shakes his head, giving him a push.

“I will take care of it, Grand Scholar. I’ll report to the captain and station soldiers by the doors and windows. You need only worry about keeping the king safe.”

Jaehwan licks his lips nervously, nodding, and he sprints across the courtyard.

“Majesty!” he calls as he gets close, dodging soldiers when they can’t get out of his way fast enough. He raises a fist and pounds on the door until Hakyeon finally opens it just wide enough for him to slip through.

“I’m halfway through,” he says in lieu of a greeting, and sits back down at his desk.

By wordless agreement, Jaehwan situates himself with one back to a wall so he can monitor the window and door at the same time. It is a long night, but his hand never leaves his knife.

 

When morning finally dawns, Jaehwan’s limbs are stiff with tension. Hakyeon has long since shut the book, tucked it in a compartment in the underside of his bed, and risen to watch the window.

Finally, a knock sounds on the door, and Jaehwan opens it for one of the guards.

“All the demons within the palace have been eradicated,” she says in a low voice. “We closed the gates two hours ago to prevent anything else from slipping in.”

Jaehwan nods his thanks and closes the door before turning to Hakyeon, who retrieves the book and return it to him with its outer binding already secure. He wraps a cloth around the bundle and slips out into the hallway.

On his way to the library, he spots a solitary figure sitting under the peach trees. Wonsik is checking his arrows, picking out the shafts that have splintered and breaking off the heads for hafting onto new shafts. Against his better judgment, he steps off the path and walks across the grass, the book still clutched to his chest.

“Do you know where you are?”

Wonsik looks up at him in a silent question, brow cocked.

“These were the late queen’s gardens.” Jaehwan tells him. “His Majesty lived in her chambers after she passed.”

“I have never seen him here,” Wonsik remarks.

“He does not step foot here now, but he still tends them in her memory.”

“I see.” Wonsik glances up through the branches.

“How did you chance upon this place?” Jaehwan asks, catching his gaze as he stretches his neck around to peer into the shafts of early sunlight.

“I saw my master standing here the last day of the tournament, and I was struck by how serene he looked.” Wonsik breaks off another shaft. “I wanted to see for myself the soothing properties of this garden.”

“He only came because this place represents many memories from his past,” Jaehwan says. “It holds significance for him, for things that you never knew.”

“Perhaps,” Wonsik nods, “but it holds significance for me, too. A different significance.”

Jaehwan studies him shrewdly. “You are well-spoken.”

“I’ve lived alone with my master for five years,” Wonsik replies wryly. “The conversation can become quite one-sided at times.”

“Not that,” Jaehwan shakes his head, “You never say more than you have to. The knights have told me you are easy to befriend, but you give information away very sparingly. Where did you learn to keep secrets like a courtier?”

“I’ve had practice,” Wonsik shrugs. Jaehwan can feel his temper building, and from the twinkle in Wonsik’s eye, it shows.

“You did that on purpose,” he accuses, not bothering to smooth over his rankled irritation.

“I did,” Wonsik agrees.

After a few more moments of watching the sky lighten, Jaehwan excuses himself for other duties. Wonsik bends at the waist with a polite, “Grand Scholar,” and Jaehwan does not miss that he never answers his question.

 

When Hakyeon says, on the night of the new moon, “I want Wonsik and Eunkwang to be there,” Jaehwan doesn’t hesitate to summon the two of them to his rooms before he retrieves the book.

 “Are you sure this is alright?” Hakyeon asks in a low voice as they descend to the lower level where the old tomes are kept, dry and musty with age. Eunkwang and Wonsik are waiting in Hakyeon’s rooms to avoid inciting suspicion.

“It’s not like I’m allowing them to pass through the gates.”

“I know you made a promise when you were sworn into the Order.”

“And you have already asked me to violate it.” Four lines burn with a phantom of accusation against Jaehwan’s skin. “I’m the Grand Scholar, and the Order is a mere shadow of what it once was,” he shrugs, voice lowering as they pass a younger scholar, who pauses on the stairs to bow. “I keep the keys, and I do what I want with them.”

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow, and they both know it’s a lie. If Jaehwan’s master were still alive, he would lay a stinging palm against Jaehwan’s cheek and spit in his face for dishonoring hundreds of years of tradition. Even the knowledge of what lies in the catacombs below the royal library is hoarded with careful, secret veneration. His master is dead, though, so Jaehwan doesn’t particularly care.

The last book sits at the end of the line of shelves, dirty and unassuming. Jaehwan dusts off the cover, offering it to Hakyeon, who takes it with shaking hands. Jaehwan waves his hand in a _go on_ motion, but Hakyeon shakes his head, tucking the book under his robes.

“When we reach my rooms.”

Jaehwan shrugs. Tradition dictates the new king keeps his newly opened book for a full moon cycle before returning it to the library. No one will be suspicious of the king walking out with the book tucked under his arm.

Eunkwang and Wonsik stand simultaneously when Hakyeon walks into his rooms. They both pale upon catching sight of the book in his hand. Jaehwan had informed them of the ceremony they were about to witness hours earlier, when he had called them to his study, and the shock is still apparent on their faces.

“Let there be no secrets between us,” Hakyeon says softly, looking each of them in the eye. “This book holds the fate of the kingdom, and I could very well read each of our deaths in it tonight. If there is something in here that could save us all, I will not hesitate to act upon it, and I expect you to do the same.”

They each nod, and Hakyeon turns to Jaehwan for further instructions.

“It will open in the presence of a true king under his reign’s first new moon,” Jaehwan says. “In darkness, it represents the guiding fire that the first dragon gave to the first king. You will feel the moment it gives you permission to read.”

The book itself is so thin its pages are a mere sliver against the thick binding. None of them have mentioned its size, but the thought lingers in the air.

Jaehwan feels the moment midnight hits. Magic has always run thicker in the palace, dredged in volumes of history, and Jaehwan is especially attuned. Wonsik shivers, and even Eunkwang frowns, unsettled.

“Try it now,” Jaehwan advises. “It should open for you.”

Hakyeon grasps the cover and—Jaehwan holds his breath—the book falls open, pages fluttering lightly. He breathes out a subtle sigh of relief.

“It is traditional for the king to read his future first,” Jaehwan says as Hakyeon’s eyes widen, running through the lines on the open page. “Although there are no wards against others’ eyes. Would you like us to leave you while you finish it?”

Hakyeon nods wordlessly, already absorbed in the book, and Jaehwan bows as he backs out with Wonsik and Eunkwang. Behind him, the doors clang shut, enclosing Hakyeon in the musty, thick mix of magic and dust.

Outside, the sky is dark, the halls long empty save for the guards at stiff attention by the doors. Eunkwang bids them a soft goodnight, but Wonsik lingers in the courtyard, staring up at the empty sky.

“What here reminds you of your first home?” Jaehwan steps close enough that no one else will hear the words. “The village you grew up in, not Taekwoon’s cabin.”

Wonsik thinks. “Nothing.”

“Not a single thing?” Jaehwan raises an eyebrow.

“It is a different world, here. Everyone speaks in circles and no one remembers the small gods anymore. The tales parents tell their children at night are different and new. The sun breaks through the mist before it even rises over the palace walls, and there is not a trace of salt in the air.” Wonsik lifts his palms in a defeated gesture. “There is nothing of my old home here.”

“I see.” Jaehwan folds his hands under his sleeves. “You miss it?”

Wonsik looks at him. His eyebrows are drawn together, but not in offense. He looks as if he is trying to solve a puzzle, and Jaehwan refuses to crack. Personally, Jaehwan thinks it should be the other way around.

“Yes,” he says finally, and then, with a bow, “I think it’s time for both of us to retire. Good night, Grand Master. May your sleep be dreamless.”

“And yours,” Jaehwan replies, watching as Wonsik strides through the courtyard, his feet barely making a sound against the marble.

 

\--

 

The morning the palace burns, Jaehwan crouches before his master’s door and presses his ear gingerly to the wood. When he has heard enough, he tucks a knife into the folds of his robes. He does not tell the king, as history must run his course, but he cannot help but think of the words penned in impeccable script.

 _A prince will die_.

A prince will die.

Only one.

There is bitter nausea, thick with self-loathing, in the back of his throat as he thinks, _Please, not Hakyeon._

He is not the third son of a king, but Jaehwan thinks that he, too, has quite a hand in fate.

 

That morning, Jaehwan is to attend to his master as he lunches with the king. He gathers his books and his golden spectacles and pads after his master with light steps, mouth shut and ears open for gossip. Before they enter the throne room, Jaehwan takes a detour to the kitchens, where he subsequently lightens his master’s purse of a handful of silvers and a small vial. He gives these to a small kitchen boy with very specific orders, then trots back to his master to return his purse.

During the meal, he stands to the right of his master, just behind his chair, and tastes his food before the Grand Scholar eats.

“Don’t you think your fears are quite unfounded, Master Scholar?” the king says with a thinly-veiled smile. “You eat at a dragon king’s table. There will be no poison.”

He catches Jaehwan’s eye, and the smile falls.

 _So he knows_ , Jaehwan thinks, and samples a morsel of rice. The knife weighs heavy against his ribs.

“Not at all, Majesty,” his master replies with a thinly-veiled smile of his own. “It never hurts to be too careful.”

Jungsu waves off the comment with a hand, too calculated to be carefree. He has no taster at the table. Jaehwan does not think, for one second, that there is no taster at all.

“What a morbid thought,” Jungsu says with a twinkle in his eye. “But quite sensible, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should invest in a taster, myself?”

“Maybe so,” his master replies neutrally. He does not think Jungsu needs to invest in a taster, Jaehwan knows. If all goes according to plan, Jungsu will not be eating another meal again.

“Surely you would not mind if I borrowed yours for the remainder of this meal,” Jungsu says with impeccable timing, just as the next course is served.

A short pause, but not so long as to incite suspicion.

“Of course not.”

Jaehwan throws his master a panicked expression. The poison is slow-acting—his master, too, knows that the king no doubt keeps tasters, given that Jaehwan had paid them all off in the last five days—but fatal.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” the Grand Scholar gives him a sharp glance, as if he is daft. He takes his hand in a sharp grip, “You must be respectful to the king.”

When he takes his hand away, there is a small vial in Jaehwan’s palm. He tucks it into his sleeve and shuffles the two steps from his master’s right to the king’s left. Then, he hesitates, looking back at his master as if for guidance.

In reality, he is pondering the outcome. He must eat the food, as the king is now looking at him expectantly, nudging the plate towards him. There is antidote in the palm of his hand, and the only two choices are death by poison or arrest and execution.

 _For the good of the kingdom_ , a memory of his master’s voice echoes as he raises an eyebrow.

Jaehwan slips the antidote back up his sleeve and eats.

Jungsu nods, satisfied, and takes his first mouthful of food. The Grand Scholar starts, too, after the king has swallowed, as is customary. They both take two more bites before the effects set in, and several things happen at once.

First, “Jaehwan!”

The Grand Scholar stands with a cry, hand reaching into his belt, even as he sways on his feet. His face is a mask of betrayal, slowly purpling. He has noticed, of course, that Jaehwan’s face is fine. The guards begin to rush forward, but they are too far away.

Next, the Grand Scholar’s hand emerges, holding a knife. He takes a groggy lunge forward, and then another.

Jaehwan steps forward to meet him, his own knife drawn, and plunges the blade into his master’s chest. Jaehwan has never stabbed a man before. It’s slippery work, much harder to thrust in than he would have thought. He puts his whole weight behind it, pushing until his master’s hand hangs limp, knife clattering out of his grip.

Finally, he doubles over and vomits, arms and chest still slick with blood.

“That was quite well done,” Jungsu tells him when he straightens again. His wrinkles are deep, and his eyes are no longer shrewd. “I trust you will perform similarly when you serve my son.”

Later—much later, after fires have consumed the south wing, after the marble has been bathed in dragon’s blood—Jaehwan receives three bars on his forearm alongside his first.

 

Jaehwan substitutes for his master at the trials, white-faced and hazy-eyed. He stands to the left and back of Hakyeon, who situates himself by his father’s throne as the scholars are brought to kneel before them one by one. Jaehwan cannot bring himself to look his elders in the eye, but he feels their baleful stares. One of the masters tries to spit at him, but it falls short and lands on the king’s boot. He is quickly speared by a guard and hauled away, and servants swoop in to clean the blood off the ground afterwards.

The last of the rebels to stand before them wears a familiar face and torn skirts, scorched with fire. The Lady Jo appears alone, without her husband and son.

“Where is he.” Hakyeon’s voice is quiet, but holds an unmistakable air of authority. His hands are crossed behind his rigid back, and only Jaehwan can see the way his fists clench, one hand wrapped around the other wrist.

“The champion-in-training has sustained grievous injuries and cannot be brought to the throne room in his current condition,” the guard says reluctantly.

Hakyeon steps forward before Jungsu can open his mouth, and his nails leave white crescents in his palms.

“He saw my brother die. His father killed Minhyuk, and he is the only living witness to my brother’s death. _Where is he_.”

“He is in the prison cells, Highness,” the guard pauses, clear hesitation in his voice. “Shall we summon him?”

“There is no need,” Jungsu interrupts. He turns so Jaehwan can see his profile. “Hakyeon. Stand down.”

There is a moment of silence, during which Taekwoon’s mother stares at Hakyeon as if at a stranger. Hakyeon finally shifts on his feet, settling back on his heels.

“We do not require his presence to pass judgment today.” The king waves his hand, deceptively dismissive.

“Our promise,” Lady Jo reminds Jungsu, tight-lipped and steely-eyed.

Jungsu does not acknowledge her outburst. He nods for Jaehwan to read the offenses, which he does so shakily.

“The Lady Jo is accused of arson, attempted poisoning of His Majesty, and conspiring with the elder Scholars of the Order to commit treason against the crown. The knight Jung Taekwoon, champion-in-training to the former crown prince, is accused of failure to protect His Highness, the late Lee Minhyuk, from his assailant and conspiring with his father, mother, and the elder Scholars of the Order to commit treason against the crown.” He swallows dryly. “The Lady Jo sustained minor burns and cuts to her legs from the fire she lit in the south wing, while Sir Jung received heavy lacerations to his gut, ribs, and hands by, presumably, his father’s sword.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lady Jo spits as Jaehwan finishes. “My son was never involved in the plots against the kingdom. _I_ was the mastermind, and I never spoke a word of our plans to him. He was injured protecting the crown prince against his own father’s sword.”

“We cannot know what transpired in the room in the crown prince's last moments. There is no proof both for and against the young champion’s innocence,” Jungsu replies neutrally. “We will pass judgment as we see fit. Hakyeon?” He turns, motioning at his son, and briefly catches Jaehwan’s eye. The king is quick to adapt; he is already breeding Hakyeon to make decisions, to be a strong king.

“The Lady Jo shall be sentenced to the same punishment as the elders of the Order,” Hakyeon says in a monotone. “It is only fair.”

“I do agree, my son, but what of the champion-in-training?” He says it like a test, but Jaehwan knows better. The angle of his elbow is too sharp, his hand too still. He expects a certain answer from Hakyeon, and he asks because he trusts in his own expectations. “Do you think he should be spared for his loyalty to the crown?”

There is a long pause. Jaehwan holds his breath. Hakyeon doesn’t _know_ , but he needs to make the right choice.

“His actions prove his innocence yesterday,” he finally says.

Jaehwan feels himself exhale, and he restrains himself before it can become a sigh of relief. Now, for the other half of the promise—

“You suggest that he be acquitted of all accusations and treated as a hero, rather than punished.” Jungsu says, phrased like a statement. Like a suggestion.

Hakyeon hesitates, and Lady Jo speaks before he can answer.

“I have a final request.” She bites down on her lip. “I wish to be given a traditional sea burial, as by the tradition of those of the northern coast.”

“You are not in a position to be making demands,” Jungsu says coldly.

“I am the mother of a hero.”

“You and your husband killed my son.”

“Then, my daughters,” she closes her eyes to disguise a flash of anger, throat bobbing, “they reside in the Spiral Peaks, both married into the Lee family at a young age. My son alone resided in the palace with me, yet all three were taught by my hand, raised on stories of my youth. They would be saddened to hear their mother was not laid to rest according to the traditions of her bloodline.”

Jungsu hesitates. Jaehwan cannot tell if it is an act. He turns. “Hakyeon?”

“She indeed raised the champion-in-training as her own.” He leans forward, quieter. “He is her son in everything but blood. The virtues and vices of a child are all reflections of a parent’s teachings, are they not?”

Jungsu contemplates without a single outward expression of his thoughts, gaze trained on Lady Jo as she stands with as much pride as she can manage with her wrists bound. Finally, he nods.

Hakyeon turns back to face the Lady Jo. “Your request will be granted.”

She relaxes imperceptibly, eyes softening with relief. Jungsu raises his hand to dismiss the guards, when Hakyeon steps forward again. The iron grip behind his back unfurls into a casual fold, fingers straight and neat. The crescent indents lie hidden under his fingers.

Jungsu raises an eyebrow. “Hakyeon?”

“By the same logic, we should not be so careful as to dismiss the champion-in-training as harmless.” He bows gracefully towards the king, requesting permission to continue.

Jungsu looks at him, eyes searching. “Go on.”

“We have determined that Lady Jo orchestrated most of the death that occurred today,” Hakyeon continues, “and that she raised three children as her own, although only one remained with her to adulthood.” Jaehwan understands what he is insinuating a moment before he says it. From Lady Jo’s expression, she knows, too. “While Jung Taekwoon genuinely did not know of the plans for the rebellion yesterday, there is no guarantee that he will not come to see the logic of his mother’s ways.”

“He defended the prince,” Lady Jo starts. “He pledged himself to the crown. He nearly _died_ from his wounds and—”

“He pledged himself to one prince, and that prince is dead. We cannot risk another rebellion in our hands.”

“You plan to dispose of him?” Her pitch heightens with urgency. “For a crime he has never committed? He has served the crown all his life!”

 “I do not go back on my word. He will not be killed,” Hakyeon shakes his head. “I merely wished to suggest that he be exiled from the central regions and prohibited from contacting his sisters in the Lee family.”

Lady Jo’s eyes widen and she opens her mouth as if to protest, but nothing comes out. She looks to the king as if to remind him, _the promise_ , but, Jaehwan realizes with a start, the promise had not touched on the possibility of exile.

The king’s gaze flicks to Hakyeon. “The issues you have raised are not without reason.” 

"I speak from an entirely objective standpoint. The royal hand represents justice, does it not?"

Jungsu's lips thin. "Well said, my son. I will do as you suggest, then. The champion-in-training, Jung Taekwoon, will be exiled from the central regions and prohibited from speaking or otherwise corresponding with all blood relations within the Lee family, unless he is specifically permitted to do so in the name of the king."

Lady Jo closes her eyes in defeat and slumps briefly as the guards lead her away.

The king sighs and stands, waiting until she is gone to speak. “Hakyeon, we will speak of this later. I did not anticipate having to find a new champion.”

He strides out of the throne room, flanked by his guards, before Hakyeon can answer. Blood begins to well under unrelenting nails. Hakyeon turns, tucking his hands into the deep sleeves of his robes. He turns and looks at Jaehwan, as if waiting for him to pass judgment. Jaehwan doesn’t know what to say.

“His mother,” he finally breathes, “she bargained with the king for his life. Her terms…”

He trails off as Hakyeon blinks hard, arms straightening at his sides.

“I knew,” he says quietly, exhaling with the barest shudder, and closes his eyes. “I knew.”

It’s not until a boy tugs on Jaehwan’s sleeve nearly two years later and introduces himself as a knight in training that he really questions exactly how much Hakyeon knows. He stands behind the throne as Han Sanghyuk becomes the last knight to enter the king’s guard and can think of nothing but the words whispered with trembling honesty into the heart of his large, large ear. Nevertheless, he is a man of his word and he loves his king with all his heart, and so he devotes himself to his king and does not let any of his thoughts boil to the surface.

He thinks of seashells sanded down by the wild sea, a firm hand guiding him to safety as the underbrush scrapes his knees, and tucks away another secret in his heart, a secret the old king thought he had taken to his grave.

 

\--

 

In the morning, they find Hakyeon at the same position they left him the night before, sitting before the last page of the last book. It's short enough that he could have read it five times within the course of the night, yet his complexion is ashen, eyes ringed with sleepless bruises.

“What did you find?” Jaehwan asks impatiently as soon as they are all gathered, and Eunkwang and Wonsik look surprised at his outburst.

“Nothing was as clear as I thought it would be, but—” he cuts off, chewing his lip, “all the events in the text take place in the next moon cycle. The end is quite abrupt, and I could not make heads nor tails of it.”

“It didn’t say what would happen, although I have an idea of what I have to do.”

Jaehwan is the only one to pick up on the implications of Hakyeon’s wording. He narrows his eyes, but Hakyeon gives him a warning look.

“What puzzles me, though,” he continues, “is the meaning of eternal night.”

Eunkwang frowns. “Eternal night?”

Hakyeon nods. “It says that the demons will bring with them eternal night, beginning the night of the next full moon.”

“How is it possible to extinguish the sun?”

“I’m not sure,” Hakyeon sighs, rubbing at his temples. “There is mention of people seeing nightmares during the day, but there hasn’t been any recorded knowledge of demons being able to bring dreams to life.”

“We need to inform my master’s company,” Wonsik interjects, looking pale. “They have no idea about any of these abilities.”

“It will be very hard to contact them,” Eunkwang points out. “There are more and more demons gathering at the gates. My knights have barely gotten used to exterminating them in large groups. Anyone who went out there right now would have a higher chance

“I can go,” Wonsik says, a bit desperately. “I have experience dealing with demons, and I am a fast rider.”

“No,” Hakyeon says firmly before Eunkwang can reply. “Absolutely not. Your master entrusted your safety to me, and I promised I would keep you from harm.”

Wonsik’s mouth twists. “Majesty, with all due respect, I am not a child. I was assigned to Captain Seo as a soldier and advisor, and at the moment, I am best suited to the role of messenger.”

“No,” Hakyeon repeats stubbornly, glancing at Eunkwang. “Isn’t there anyone else you can send? Surely there is someone among your soldiers who is competent enough to reach the south without getting killed.”

Wonsik gives Hakyeon a strange look, but Eunkwang just shakes his head helplessly. “It’s a good idea, Hakyeon. With his bow, he doesn’t have to come into direct contact with demons, and he is much more suited to the role than any soldier I have trained. Besides, we’ll have to establish some sort of communication between us and Taekwoon’s group eventually.”

After a long moment, Hakyeon nods. “He must bring at least two other knights with him. I will not have him travel alone.”

“Fine,” Eunkwang turns to Wonsik, “You will depart tomorrow morning. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, sir,” Wonsik bows, and Jaehwan can’t help but notice his pinched expression has been replaced by relief.

Jaehwan raises an eyebrow at Hakyeon, who sighs again.

“Wonsik, if you don’t mind, I would like a word alone with the captain and Grand Scholar.”

“Of course, Majesty.” If Wonsik notices the abrupt shift in mood as Eunkwang catches Jaehwan and Hakyeon’s expressions, he doesn’t say anything.

Jaehwan waits until the door has closed to round on Hakyeon. “Are you planning on telling us what all that was about? It’s not like you to care so much for a man you barely know, Hakyeon.”

“He is Taekwoon’s apprentice,” Hakyeon retorts, “I may not know him, but the boy is important to my champion.”

“He’s hardly a boy anymore,” Eunkwang points out. “He is young, it’s true, but he behaves with the judgment and level-headedness of many years of training and combat experience. I don’t know what Taekwoon’s been doing with him, but he’s already much too old in both years and maturity to be an apprentice in anything but name to someone our age.”

“He isn’t a knight or a soldier,” Hakyeon argues, “he doesn’t—”

“Enough with the lies, Hakyeon,” Jaehwan interrupts, sharp-eyed. “I know you like to keep secrets close to your chest, but I don’t appreciate outright lies. We are your subordinates, yes, but I expect you to tell me the truth so that I can properly be of use.”

Hakyeon opens his mouth to reply, but Jaehwan keeps talking, anger building.  

“For that matter, did you think I wouldn’t notice what you said earlier about the end of the book? I have been watching you for years; do you really think I don’t see the way you try to take care of everything by yourself? What _you_ have to do, you said. Are you really planning on sacrificing yourself after all that I have done to try and help you find another solution?”

Hakyeon is silent. Eunkwang looks equal parts sick and horrified as understanding dawns.

“You plan to kill yourself?” Eunkwang says sharply, and it has been a long time since Jaehwan last saw this aspect of his personality. He acts the part of a genial commander so often that Jaehwan sometimes forgets that of the three of them, Eunkwang is the only one who earned his rank through his merit alone. “Who will rule when you are gone?” he demands angrily. “There is no one left in the royal family.”

“I have a successor in mind already. I believe that he has the right qualities to rule when I am gone."

Jaehwan takes a deep breath. "Is it me?"

"It's not you."

"And how do you know I will not attempt to kill this successor when you are dead?" Jaehwan narrows his eyes. "It may be diluted, but I am of dragon's blood, too. I could very well be aiming for the throne."

"I know you well enough to know you don't want to be king, Jaehwan." Hakyeon says dryly, shaking his head. "I expect you to give adequate instruction and advice until they are ready to rule, of course, but I set up a contingency plan before my father’s death in the case that my rule was cut short.”

Jaehwan buries his face in his hands, cursing heavily.

“We don’t have time to debate this,” Hakyeon sighs, rubbing at his temples. He turns to Eunkwang. “I already promised Jaehwan, and I will promise you too that if we find another solution, I will take it, but there is nothing else we can do at the moment.”

Eunkwang takes a deep breath. “You know I trust your judgement as my king, but just—please, Hakyeon. I grew up with all of you and I saw what happened to all of us when Minhyuk died. I couldn’t bear it if you left us, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Hakyeon says, staring down at the book. “I know.”

 

When he finally leaves the royal chambers, Jaehwan walks by the peach grove again. He could take another route through the palace—there are at least three shorter paths to the libraries—and yet.

The morning bleeds through the trees, casting gentle, dappled light onto the grass and the still figure beneath rustling leaves. The outline of the moon is faint in the sky, a bare sliver against the gray dawn. For reasons unknown to himself, Jaehwan stops and gazes at the sight, watching, perhaps even waiting.

Wonsik opens his eyes and catches his gaze, and Jaehwan does not look away.

After a long moment, Wonsik opens his mouth first. “What is it you wish to ask me?”

“Why?” The word leaves his mouth before he realizes it was resting on his tongue.

Wonsik cocks his head to the side. “Why what?”

“Why do you do so much for Taekwoon?”

Wonsik’s expression going thoughtful. “He is my mentor, brother, and friend. What other motivation would I need to want to be by his side when he fights?”

Jaehwan casts about to rephrase the question. “Why are you so devoted to him, though? Why did you seek him out to become his student?”

Wonsik smiles, small and secretive. “When I was young, I lost my family in a fire. I was brought to Lord Seo’s residence as a ward. You could say I grew up admiring the champion.”

"I can hear the lie buried in that statement."

Wonsik thinks. "Do you think I am not devoted to my master, then?"

Jaehwan takes in the guileless crinkle of Wonsik’s eyes and sighs.

“Would you like to join me?”

Jaehwan blinks.

"You look surprised," Wonsik observes.

"I am," Jaehwan admits. "I thought you had given up on asking after I refused the first time."

“There is a new sunrise every day. Perhaps you did not wish to see that one, but there is a chance you will choose to sit with me and enjoy a different one today,” Wonsik says, adjusting his position and patting the grass beside him. His smile widens winningly, adding, "Besides, the weather is quite fine today."

Jaehwan sighs again. He licks his lips and straightens his belt. Just as the smile begins to fade, he steps off the marble path.

“I suppose I could briefly grace this place with my presence,” Jaehwan says, nose high in the air, and he can’t help the smug satisfaction at Wonsik’s delightedly surprised laughter.

With a deft flick of his robes, he sits down close enough that their arms brush as he settles against the trunk of the tree. Wonsik closes his eyes and Jaehwan glances up through the branches, feeling the watery light against his face, before doing the same. He breathes in and out, and the soft wind brushes against his face and lifts the smell of grass, morning dew, and rich wood to his nose.

“I grew up climbing these trees,” he murmurs before he can stop himself. His chest tightens briefly.

“Is that so?” There is a smile in Wonsik’s voice. He does not ask for more, but long, callused fingers wind through Jaehwan’s, pressing their knuckles into knotted roots and grass.

“I can never hear the wind in the palace anywhere but here,” Wonsik whispers so quietly Jaehwan has to strain to hear. “It sounds like my home.”

Jaehwan breathes deeply, opens his ears, and listens.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note about a lot of the interactions in this chapter: don't worry if they didn't make sense i'll address them all in way more detail later.
> 
> hey guys if you've made it to here......thank you so much. for both actually keeping up with this fic despite my spotty update schedule and lasting through this long-ass chapter. that said, unfortunately, i can't make any promises about updates. i'll try to update once a month, and as always, you can contact me on [tumblr](http://heartsighcd.tumblr.com) if you've got any questions!


	7. The Blue Ribbon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man this update was hard to write. i'm still a little :/ about how it turned out but i couldn't hold on to this chapter forever, so here it is. as always, thank you for your patience with me <3
> 
> warnings for this chapter: brief discussion of death and self-sacrifice/suicide, violence, minor character death

It takes ten days to reach the southern coast for a company of their size. It takes seven for Taekwoon when he rides alone, but there are limitations to the speed of their supply wagons, small though they are, and Taekwoon can’t help but feel ungainly and slow in the mornings as he watches the tents being packed away.

On the first night, just after he sends for the senior officers to review the soldiers’ assignments, an urgent call summons him. Hongbin looks ashen when he steps inside to inform Taekwoon that there have been three demons sighted skirting the edges of the camp. The first two were easily killed, but one of the men was injured by the third. Taekwoon arrives just in time to see the man rise to his feet, expression as stoic as he can muster as he inspects the shallow wound on his forearm.

“His flesh looks rotted around the wound,” Hongbin mutters, cutting his gaze towards the gathering soldiers. “Otherwise, he is fine.”

Taekwoon inspects the wound and finds that Hongbin’s description is accurate. The skin rapidly turns green and putrid, pus oozing from the cut, but the knight claims he feels no pain.

“Go have a physician clean and bandage it,” he tells the man nevertheless before he leaves. “Report back to me if it does not heal correctly.”

“Was that supposed to happen?” Hongbin asks, voice trembling. Taekwoon did not ask for an escort, but the knight accompanies him back anyway. “You never mentioned that touching a demon would rot your flesh.”

“That’s because I’ve never heard it before,” Taekwoon retorts. “And you and I have both touched demons before, so mere skin contact is not the instigator.”

“Then being wounded by a demon,” Hongbin frowns, “have you heard anything about receiving a wound from a demon?”

“In the stories that I’ve been told, most demon encounters ended in death,” Taekwoon says shortly.

When he reaches the tent, the two officers are already inside. They both bow and introduce themselves, but otherwise betray no significant discomfort or deference towards his presence.

One of them, Changsub, is an amiable man with an easy, wide-set stance. Taekwoon remembers him faintly from the academy, some distant relative of Jaehwan’s who came to the palace when he was old enough to start his training. The other, Joohyun, he recognizes as the woman he fought on the third day of the tournament, right before his match with Eunkwang. She still wears the orange favor her lover gifted her that day.

They seem mostly satisfied with the assignments Taekwoon has chosen when he shares his list, making minimal changes. All in all, the plan he and Hakyeon agreed on is simple. The knights will travel in groups of two and three, visiting local lords to request gold and arms and train their private forces to protect and defend the surrounding area. The supply wagons, mostly containing gold, would continue with a small retinue along the royal road in a direct path towards the Fire, distributing supplies to aid those in greatest need. Hakyeon hadn’t been happy when Taekwoon had voiced his intentions to head the escort for the supplies, but he had been forced to capitulate in the face of reason.

Joohyun voices a few concerns regarding the distribution of their supplies across such a wide area, while Changsub focuses more on compatibility between the knights assigned to travel together. Taekwoon does his best to address both problems, and the two officers react positively to his suggestions.

Towards the tail-end of the meeting, a knock sounds outside of the tent, and a soldier enters with a request for his commanding officer, Changsub, to take a check of their inventory. The knight takes his leave with another bow, giving Taekwoon a genuine smile as he leaves.

“If you would,” he says as he lifts the flap covering the entrance to the tent, “We would be honored to enjoy your presence at the fire tonight. One my knights, Sanghyuk, was assigned to escort you to the capital. He tells me you are quite the storyteller.”

Taekwoon knows the invitation is a sign of approval—one that he should accept—but he shakes his head. “Perhaps another night. I would like to give the assignments and begin sending groups out on their own by tomorrow.”

Changsub nods. “Tomorrow, then. It has been an honor, sir.”

Joohyun gives him an appraising look once the flap drops shut. “If I may, sir,” she starts, waiting for him to nod before she continues, “I’m sure the men and women of the guard would welcome you to the fire if you so wished to join them.”

Taekwoon gives her a small smile. “I speak the truth when I say I am busy tonight.”

“Of course.” She lowers her head. “I did not mean to accuse you of lying.”

“But you think I am not as friendly as I should be?” he finishes.

She nods. “We have grown used to Captain Seo, but we have heard near nothing of you, but for how you fight. It would bolster our confidence, I think, if the champion himself came to sit at our campfire tomorrow before we disperse.”

He ponders for a moment. “I see. Then I will come tomorrow night.”

“Thank you, champion.” She gives him a small smile before she departs.

 

It is long, but menial work to travel through the tents and give orders to the knights departing the next morning. Taekwoon knows that he could easily hand the task off to a subordinate, but he also knows he has been remiss in building a personal connection to his soldiers, so he greets each knight in person and shakes their hand and thanks them for their service in the name of the throne. He knows that it might very well be the last time he ever sees them. Not for the first time, he wonders if they said their goodbyes to their loved ones before they departed.

When he finally returns to his tent that night, Taekwoon lies down to sleep.

He dreams.

There is rough wood under his fingers, and dark waters pooling further down, below his dangling legs. Bright flowers bob in the lake, forming bright rings around the shivering image of the moon. Invisible hands tug and slip at his clothes, not strong enough to feel solid, until he slips off the branch and onto his knees at the surface of the water.

From afar, the flowers had looked to be but the size of his palm, but now they tower over his head, waxen petals so large they obscure the dark, dark sky. After a few moments, he realizes that they grow larger by the second, blooming until the petals threaten to fall and still, nothing breaks the surface of the pond.

They grow and grow until they press down on his face and body and he lies, gasping and clawing for each breath, and chokes on the taste of flowers and smoke and ash and blood.

He does not wake until morning.

 

\--

 

The first death occurs on the morning of the second day. They’ve barely begun to pack up camp when a blood-curdling scream rips through the dawn. Taekwoon shoves his way out of the tent half-dressed, gripping his golden sword in one hand and a sputtering lantern in the other.

The knights have been trained well enough to keep their mouths shut as they all run towards the sound of the scream, but Taekwoon can tell from the tight press of their lips and the drain of blood from their faces that this is the moment they have all feared. None of them have ever fought in a war, not even Taekwoon, and the death of a comrade is a shocking thing to behold.

Hongbin reaches his elbow first, pulling him towards the center of the commotion, and they arrive just in time to see Joohyun cut down the dark beast crouched over a pile of shining armor. Hongbin chokes back a gasp, echoed by many of the other knights. She kicks away the black dust as soon as it begins to crumble, running to kneel by the armor, and Taekwoon realizes that there is still the bare remains of a body inside, nothing but shriveled and blackened bones.

There must be something resembling life left in the knight’s face, though, because Joohyun clasps a claw-like hand. In the silent chill of the morning, Taekwoon can hear her whisper.

“Do not fear the darkness. You will soon find a place to rest.”

He bends to kneel on the knight’s other side, and if not for the memory of his master lying mangled and bloodied on cold marble, Taekwoon would not have been able to hold in his visceral reaction at the sight of skin burned beyond recognition. The irony of a creature that feared and detested fire burning its own victims does not escape him.

“What is his name?” he asks, clasping the other hand.

Glazed, melted eyes swivel aimlessly, not quite landing on their target. Taekwoon resists the urge to reach out a hand to close them—the knight’s eyelids have already been burned away.

“Sir Yeo, a member of my division,” Joohyun murmurs to him. “His wife and child live with his elder sister in the western swamps.”

Taekwoon looks into the fading eyes, and knows that he is too far gone for last words. There is a faint tightening in his hand, and he knows he only has moments left to speak.

“Take your rest, good knight,” he says. “You have served the kingdom well. We shall protect your loved ones in your place.”

A resigned sigh, and crumbling skin falls away as his soul escapes.

Joohyun draws in a shuddering breath. Together, they stand.

“Continue packing the camp,” he tells the spectators, “Never move alone, and make haste. Be vigilant at all times.”

 

On the road, the soldiers are clearly uneasy. Thinking on the events of the morning, Taekwoon himself feels a queasy squeeze in his gut, but he sits tall in the saddle nevertheless.

Towards midday, he sends Hongbin to the back of the group to check on the wounded knight from the day before. He returns with a message from Changsub that the knight has seen neither improvement nor further inflammation of his wound. With nothing left to do, the physicians slathered it with a poultice to burn out the infection and rewrapped it in clean bandages.

“It isn’t unusual for an infected wound to fester for a few days thought, right?” Hongbin asks, face pinched with worry.

Taekwoon sighs, glancing at the troops riding around them. He doesn’t want to further lower morale, so he shrugs and shakes his head. “We will have to wait to see.”

Hongbin’s eyes narrow, but he does not push the matter.

“You may return to your position,” Taekwoon says, but to his surprise, Hongbin steers his horse closer.

“There was actually one more thing I wished to speak about,” he says in a tone clearly more covert than before.

Taekwoon resists the urge to glance at the knights riding around them. “And you think now is the time to discuss it?”

“It is urgent.” Hongbin pauses. “I have a favor to ask of you, actually. Sir,” he adds belatedly.

Taekwoon raises an eyebrow. “A favor.”

“I wanted to ask who you had assigned to work with me.” Hongbin chews his lip. “Is it Sanghyuk?”

Taekwoon frowns. “Yes. What of it?”

“I would like to request a reassignment. I will take a new partner if you take Sanghyuk with you and the supplies.”

Taekwoon scoffs, “And on what grounds should I listen to this brazen request of yours? I am your commanding officer. You are to do as I say.”

“Even if I tell you that I cannot act with a level head around him? It is not an exaggeration; you saw what I did during the tournament.” Hongbin’s lip protrudes in a stubborn jut as he turns a mulish glare upon Taekwoon, daring him to refuse again.

“Suppose I do reassign him. Do you have suggestions for another partner?”

Hongbin pauses. “Gongchan would be fine. He is the only other knight I am familiar with on this trip.”

Taekwoon sighs. “Fine. Consider it granted, if only because you always seem set on going head to head with him. If there is an empty post that needs filling, though, I will not keep Sanghyuk where he is useless traveling with the supply wagons. This is a war, and I will not waste resources for the sake of your whims. Do you understand?”

Hongbin’s lips thin, but he nods. “Thank you, champion.”

 

The moment the company stops to pitch camp for the night, Taekwoon once again tracks down the knights assigned to leave the next morning. When he reaches Hongbin, he receives a tight nod and a quiet whisper of thanks again. Taekwoon shakes his hand just as he does all the other knights and cannot bring himself to ask why Hongbin looks so relieved when he turns away.

That night, Taekwoon takes his meal at the campfire. He would prefer to sit on the fringes, barely dipping into the conversation, but Hongbin immediately vacates the seat next to Sanghyuk, moving across the fire without a backwards glance towards him. After a brief shuffle, Taekwoon spares the boy any further awkwardness by accepting the seat with a resigned sigh.

“A story,” Changsub chants at him, a curious smile wide on his face, and Taekwoon doesn’t have the heart to refuse. They need entertainment, after the events of the morning.

“Any requests?” he asks, and a dozen hands go up.

“A love story,” one man requests, and a dozen fervent nods echo the sentiment.

“A fairytale,” a woman pipes up, “With magic and the like.”

Joohyun raises her hand, and the group quiets in deference to her rank.

“If you know any stories of the sea,” she says, almost shyly. “Something from the Silver Isles, to be specific. It has been a long time since I have visited home.”

“The Silver Isles?” Taekwoon says thoughtfully, “I have only heard one story from there. Do you know the one about the sailor’s lover?”

“Oh!” Joohyun leans forward almost eagerly, “Please, tell that one.”

“It is quite sad,” Taekwoon says hesitantly, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. My father told it so beautifully, even though my sisters and I always cried at the end,” Joohyun says wistfully.

“You could tell us two stories, then,” Changsub interjects diplomatically, even as his eyes twinkle with mischief. “The sailor’s lover, and then something happier to end the night.”

Taekwoon laughs. He knows when he’s been had. “Very well. Two stories, as I’m feeling generous.”

Joohyun claps her hands in delight. Taekwoon cannot help but notice her behavior contrasts with the reticent and composed image she has projected thus far in their journey. The unreserved joy is almost childlike, and he cannot help but remember that she is only a year younger than him.

“Thank you!” she smiles, “I did not think you would have heard of this tale. It is quite popular in the Isles, but I have never heard it since traveling to the capital.”

Taekwoon hesitates. “Ah, yes. It is—My mother told it to me once,” he lies, “She heard it from a merchant who traveled by sea. It came from a time before the Isles became a part of the kingdom. It has been a long time since I last heard it.”

It takes him a moment to find the words. When he takes a deep breath, the group stills and leans in towards the fire. It is only when he is certain he has caught all of their attention that he starts.

“There was once a boy who grew up by the seaside. His mother was a lady with a grand manor and his sisters were raised to be her heirs, but he spent his days running along the docks, breathing in the salt of the blue sea.

“Over time, the boy grew into a man, and he fell in love with the captain of a great ship, the only one that could sail far from land. The captain and his sailors would go for months at a time, often returning with strange cloths and unfamiliar spices, claiming that they had found another land beyond the sea. They would tell stories at the taverns of rich forests and mountains that kissed the sky, of monsters that lurked in shadows and kings who wore robes spun from pure gold, and no one believed a word, but for the young man.

“His mother warned him away, but he fell in love with the captain anyway, and they were happy as could be. He would sail away for months, still, but when he returned, he always had a gift—a glass trinket, an iron coin stamped with the face of a woman, a dyed feather of five colors—and he would sleep in the young man’s bed until he next departed for distant lands.

“Then, one day, the captain left and never returned. For nearly a year, the young man waited by the shore and saw not a hint of sail on the horizon. Desperate, he prayed to the small gods, although he knew that they did not often listen to the prayers of mortals.

“Against all odds, the gods of the sea answered, pulling themselves from the briny waves with an offer. Now, the young man’s mother was wise, and she taught him to never wish to the gods, for a god was neither good nor evil, and a wish always asked for a price in return. However, he missed his lover badly, and loneliness only served to sharpen his desperation. He accepted their gift and when they asked, ‘What will you give us in return?’ he answered, ‘Anything.’

“It didn’t happen immediately. For the first few months, nothing changed, and the young man sat at the docks every day, waiting for his captain to return. Then, as the seasons changed, the people began to notice that something was wrong. In a year, not a single drop of rain had hit the earth.

“The trees withered and the crops died and the people starved and the sky was blue and cloudless for years and years and years. The young man’s mother died and his eldest sister became the lady of the manor, and her children had never seen a drop of rain since their birth. The dry spell lasted until the young man became an old man and the sea dried until no water hit the shore, and finally, as he neared the end of his days, the gods came upon his doorstep again.

“‘Walk down into the sea,’ the gods instructed, ‘Walk forward and do not look back until you find what you have lost.’

“‘What of the price?’ the old man asked them.

“‘You have already paid the price,’ the gods told him. ‘You have given up your ocean, your people, your forests, and your crops. You have given up your mother, your sister, her children, her children’s children, and all who will come after them. We named the price, and we are satisfied. The debt is paid.’

“With that, the small gods left his home, and the old man walked into the dry sea. He walked for days and days, months and months, years and years, on ground that cracked beneath his feet, until the scent of salt and dust and rotted fish embedded itself into his very skin, and finally, he came upon a grand ship with a familiar bow.

“In the largest cabin, he found the bones of his lover, his flesh long eaten away by passing fish. Overcome with shock and loss, he sank to his knees, weeping into the salt-stiff sheets of the captain’s bed.

“As he mourned, the gods granted him one last gift, for the price of his love had been large. They repaired the wood and the sails and the rusted iron nails and finally, as the ship creaked with new life, the first rain in half a lifetime poured in to quench the empty sea. When the sea finally filled, the man took his lover’s bones to a new land, where he walked into the forest and was never seen again.”

For a moment, only silence greets the end of the story.

“Oh my,” Changsub finally says, wiping at his eyes. “That was quite touching.”

“You have a voice for storytelling,” Joohyun says quietly, “The words—you treat them as if they are precious.”

A murmur of assent rises around the fire.

“Thank you,” he bobs his head, ears warming.

Looking to his side, he sees Sanghyuk staring at him, a frown marring his lips. When Taekwoon inclines his head curiously, he cuts his gaze down and away, brow clearing.

After a suitable pause to let his audience wipe their tears, Taekwoon tells his second story, a legend about a boy who could walk through dreams and raised a man from a hundred-year sleep. He blushes under the echo of their applause until the group disperses for their bedrolls. Eventually, the fire empties aside from the first watch, and Taekwoon sits alone. Only then does he return to his tent.

 

At night, Taekwoon dreams again. It has been a long time since he dreamt with such frequency, and he knows in some abstract sense that he when he wakes, he will feel like he has not rested in days. There is a firmness like cool marble under his palms as he stares into the surface of the flat, flat pond.

The moon shines bright and the lotuses slowly suffocate him and he is acutely aware of every second that passes until he wakes in the morning. When he asks the guards stationed outside, they tell him he did not make a sound as he slept.

 

\--

 

The camp disperses at dawn, as most of the remaining knights are set to depart once the sun rises fully over the horizon. Taekwoon stands by the supply wagons and the small remainder of his retinue and watches as the cloaked figures vanish into the morning mist.

“Did you want to go?” he asks Sanghyuk when he spots the young man gazing after them.

Sanghyuk shakes his head. “No. I just thought I would be among them. I was ready.”

Taekwoon turns back. “You will have another role to play once we reach the first lord’s castle. It won’t be easy traveling so close to the Fire, you know.”

“I know.” Sanghyuk bites his lip.

Taekwoon follows his gaze to where a knight is helping his companion bind his arm and shoulder into a sling. Even in the haze of the morning, he recognizes the pursed frown on the injured man’s face.

“You expected to be partnered with him?”

Sanghyuk nods.

“The two of you are not on the best of terms,” Taekwoon points out. “Changsub advised against it.”

“I am accustomed to how he fights.”

Taekwoon raises an eyebrow. “We have drafted and re-drafted the assignments dozens of times, Sanghyuk. You will have to trust the judgment of your superior officers in this matter.”

Sanghyuk nods again after a moment’s hesitation.

 

They reach the first lord’s estate nearly two hours before nightfall. The elder Lord Im, unfortunately, had caught a mysterious disease and cannot emerge from his chambers to greet them. In his stead, his son, a young man with a crescent-eyed smile, formally thanks them for the food and gold delivered from the capital and arranges for their quarters to be cleared for the night. He exchanges a few more words with Changsub, who gives him a sympathetic rub of the back before returning to Taekwoon’s side.

“He is a friend of mine,” the knight explains at Taekwoon’s raised eyebrow. “His mother was a good friend of my father. He visited Spiral Peaks quite often as a child.”

The younger Lord Im readily agrees to turn his father’s private arms up to the king’s guard for training. He also offers to house them for the night inside the well-guarded walls of his estate. Upon nightfall, Taekwoon is thankful for the fires lighting one by one on the ramparts.

When he reaches his chambers, he tenses upon sighting the figure standing outside, only relaxing when he recognizes the idle fidgeting and tall stature.

“Sanghyuk, was there something you needed?”

The boy flinches, gaze flitting to his face, and nods.

“Come in,” Taekwoon opens the door and waits for him to enter before closing it. “Is something the matter? Is this about our conversation this morning?”

“Not quite,” Sanghyuk fumbles with his hands for a moment, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about the stories you told last night. I hope you wouldn’t mind answering a question I had?”

“I see,” Taekwoon nods. “Go on.”

“The first story,” Sanghyuk starts hesitantly. “Where did you really hear it?”

Taekwoon blinks in surprise. He briefly considers lying.

“Hakyeon told it to me,” he admits. “His mother recited it to him often when he was child. It was her favorite story, but he hated it.”

“The late queen liked fairy tales, then?”

“Not at all,” Taekwoon shakes his head. “This story was a cautionary tale parents would tell their children in the Silver Isles. They thought the boy weak and foolish, you see, to throw away his land for love. It is a grudge they have held for hundreds of years since they came under the dragon kings’ rule.”

“I see.” Sanghyuk bites his lip, eyes dropping to his hands, then to the fire.

Taekwoon waits for a moment. “Was that all?”

Sanghyuk clenches his jaw so hard that Taekwoon fancies he can hear his jaw grind. “No. I wished to address another conversation that we had much earlier, back when Hongbin and I were escorting you to the capital. I am afraid I implied—quite insensitively—that you would be disloyal to His Majesty, or that you had betrayed him in some way. I would like to offer my sincere apologies, sir.” He bows low, ears turning red as he waits for Taekwoon’s answer.

“Thank you,” Taekwoon starts, bewildered. “I was not offended, though I will not pretend I did not feel hurt by the implications. They were quite well-founded, though, and it reassures me that Hakyeon’s knights worry so over his wellbeing. You did not know anything of my history or of the soundness of my character at the time, so I do not fault you for thinking whatever you did.”

“That is—” Sanghyuk rises, eyes squeezing shut. If Taekwoon did not know better, he would think the boy looked mortified or apprehensive. “That is not entirely true.”

Taekwoon frowns, not quite understanding. “Sanghyuk, what—”

“The knife,” almost a whisper, but loud enough to interrupt, “I am sorry for damaging an object of such precious meaning to you and His Majesty.”

Sanghyuk escapes before Taekwoon fully comprehends his words.

 

\--

 

The next morning, after another night buried under lotuses, Taekwoon leaves his chambers to find the manservant assigned to him nervously hovering beside the door. The younger Lord Im, he is sorry to inform Taekwoon, will not be available to send them off in the morning, as he is meeting with visiting physicians to discuss his father’s health. He invites Taekwoon to bring any remaining requests to his steward should he need anything before they depart.

“There will be no need,” Taekwoon tells him as he waits for his horse to be prepared, “He has shown us more than enough hospitality, and I trust that the guard members staying to train his knights will ask for whatever they need during their stay. Please send my regards and best wishes towards Lord Im’s health.”

When he meets the rest of the company in the courtyard, Changsub has already checked the inventory and given the order to mount. He gives Taekwoon a brief nod, but the circles under his eyes betray his concern towards his friend. Taekwoon claps him on the back as he rides past to lead them onto the road.

 

For the next few days, as they travel through the royal roads, Taekwoon finds himself sleeping less and less. At night, his dreams weigh heavy on his chest and stifle his lungs. He finds reasons to sit at the small makeshift table in his tent, poring over maps and figures long after the moon is high in the sky. No matter when he sleeps, he wakes like clockwork in the morning, drenched in sweat with his knuckles and teeth aching from clenching through the night.

Taekwoon misses having a companion, he finds. He’d become used to Wonsik’s presence by his side for the last five years, and now he finds himself uncomfortable without his usual confidante. Among their small group, he is only familiar with Changsub and Joohyun, both of whom only converse with him in a professional sense, and Sanghyuk, who has begun to avoid him, now. Taekwoon knows that he could pull rank if he wanted, but Sanghyuk follows his orders and performs his duties just as quickly as he did before, and Taekwoon knows that if he pushes too far, Sanghyuk would trust him even less.

Instead of seeking a new companion, on nights they sleep under the open sky, he sits by the campfires with whichever knights are on watch, letting the heat leech away the cold that sits in his bones. He tries not to open conversation with the guards. It makes them skittish to make small talk with their commander, and he needs them alert when they are on watch. Too often, he is forced to join them when they find demons lurking around the camp perimeters.

Often, he gazes up at the waning moon and wonders how the garden looks—the real garden, filled with the sweet scent of peaches and the silver edge of moonlight and the softness of quiet beauty unaffected by his night terrors. It frightens him that he cannot muster the image anymore. With the kind of anxious repetition brought on only by the loneliness of night, he wonders over and over if he will ever step foot into the garden again.

On the sixth night, Sanghyuk sits next to him by the fire, hands clenched in the fabric of his cloak. He sets a vial down next to Taekwoon’s boot and, after a moment of tense silence, opens his mouth to speak.

“It is a sleeping draught from the physicians.”

“Is it that obvious that I have not been sleeping?”

Sanghyuk shakes his head. “I have been taught to be observant,” he takes a deep breath, “by the king.”

Taekwoon turns to look at him. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Sanghyuk bites his lip, glancing down at his feet. “I learned a very long time ago that there are many consequences for keeping secrets. I owe His Majesty for many things, but I cannot lie for him in this matter. I know who you were to him, before you left.”

Taekwoon closes his eyes. “How much?”

“He told me about the knife, and—” Sanghyuk swallows, “and the ribbon. And more. Much more.”

He watches anxiously as Taekwoon absorbs this new information. “Why you?” He sighs when Sanghyuk winces. “I just mean, what is your relationship such that he would tell you such things?”

Sanghyuk mulls over his answer for a moment. “I suppose, if anything, he feels responsible for my father’s death. He has done me great favors, and now I return them with my loyalty.”

“Was he?” Taekwoon feels lost. He thinks of Hakyeon, a golden king aloof on his throne.

“Was he what?”

“Was he responsible?”

Sanghyuk is quiet for a moment. “I used to think so.”

Taekwoon exhales. “There was once a time I would never have believed him capable of such an act.”

“I do not mean to sound disrespectful, but there are many things you did not know about His Majesty.”

It stings, but Taekwoon cannot bring himself to disagree.

“You should use the sleeping draught tonight,” Sanghyuk tells him as he rises to his feet. “It is nothing to be ashamed of. The physicians told me many soldiers have trouble falling asleep.”

“I have no difficulty falling asleep,” Taekwoon says. “I only fear that I will not be able to wake up.”

Sanghyuk frowns down at him. “Why would you not be able to wake up?”

“I do not know.” Taekwoon picks up the vial at his feet, rolling it in his palm. Even if he does not drink it tonight, there is no use worrying Sanghyuk further. “Never mind. It was only a dream. Thank you for the draught.”

Sanghyuk gives a brief bow before he departs.

 

\--

 

They reach the edge of the desert on the eighth day. The transition from forest to sand takes a mere half day to traverse, and the long column of flames comes clear into view by noon. Even two days out, the flare can be clearly seen, a thin line that travels endlessly into the sky. Although none of the knights mention it aloud, the presence of such an unnatural phenomenon puts them all on edge as they set forward.

They reach the Lady Son’s estate with streaks of orange and pink chasing them into the evening sky. They are ushered in with the gates hastily closed on their heels, and the Lady Son provides them with ample food and chambers and requests that Taekwoon leave a few knights behind. Most of Lady Son’s knights, they learn, have perished in the last three nights.

“We lit bonfires all along the walls, but there are too many now,” she says. “They climb the walls and break through the gates and burn my people to ash. Please—there must be something you can do to help us! My only remaining able-bodied fighters are too young, and I cannot let them die.”

Taekwoon had caught a glimpse of her knights as they urged their small company in through the gates. They had all been younger if not Sanghyuk’s age.

“I will see what I can do,” he tells her, but they have limited supplies and many more people to help.

They set up two shifts for watch, and Taekwoon volunteers to lead the first. He and the first half of their thirty knights spread across the walls, squinting into the darkness beyond the bonfires as the last fingers of daylight slip beyond the horizon.

The first shout arises from a young woman on the eastern wall. She waves her torch wildly, nearly singeing her fellow guards as she stabs at the silent masses of black falling over the ramparts. Sanghyuk, standing near her, barely manages to grab her by the collar and pull her back from crooked claws.

“Hold your ground!” Taekwoon shouts as torches begin to swarm to the eastern walls to help fend off the demons spilling in.

The golden weapons provided by Taekwoon’s company help, but there are enough casualties, from both Lady Son’s as well as his own knights, to feel the loss in their forces. The demons do not yet breach the walls, but Taekwoon can tell there are not many days left that the fires will hold them at bay.

By the time Joohyun comes to relieve his position, the moon is high in the sky and another five young men and women have been reduced to dust. The metallic screech of dying demons rings in his ears long after he is safely ensconced in the silence behind stone walls.

“Will we stay another night?” Sanghyuk asks as he and Taekwoon trudge back to their rooms.

Taekwoon shakes his head, even though they both know Lady Son’s knights will probably not be able to keep the demons out for another night. “I will think about leaving one or two of our knights here, but we do not have time to stay.”

Sanghyuk nods. “Have you tried the draught from the physicians?”

Taekwoon hesitates as they near his door.

“You haven’t.”

Taekwoon leans against the wall, dropping his gaze to the floor. At this hour of the night, there is no one else in the halls.

“I am afraid of what I see when I sleep,” he admits.

“And what is it you dream of?”

A pause. “Hakyeon.”

It is not a lie. The voices, the moon, the pond, the peaches, and the soft, soft touches—everything reminds him of Hakyeon like pressing old bruises.

Sanghyuk frowns.

“Not that sort of dream.” Taekwoon gives him a wry smile when he flushes.

“I did not mean to imply anything improper,” Sanghyuk says, the frown deepening. “It is just—you still love him, do you not?”

“I thought we had established you knew of this already.”

“I just wished to confirm that it was the truth.” Sanghyuk takes a deep breath. “And that you were aware he would never reciprocate any advances.”

“I am fully aware of our position,” Taekwoon says, and the words come out sharper than he intends. “As I have told both Hakyeon and Jaehwan, I entertain no fantasies of ever returning to what we once were. I hardly find it appropriate that I must repeat the same words to my own subordinate.”

Sanghyuk does not shrink into himself like Taekwoon expects. He meets his gaze defiantly, though his voice shakes when he speaks. “I merely have the king’s best interests in mind. I find it hard to believe you would give your own life to him knowing that you would never receive anything in return.”

“I only give the same as every other knight who pledges their service to him.”

“It is not the same, and you know it,” Sanghyuk says quietly. “His Majesty knows it, too. Since the moment you stepped foot in the palace, he has known that no merit of his will ever earn your respect as long as your unconditional love for him exists.”

“I only learned to love what I saw.”

“And you saw a mere fraction of his person,” Sanghyuk persists, “How will you ever see who he is—who he _was_ —when you stubbornly hold on to such a narrow perception of him, from so long ago?”

Taekwoon grits his teeth against the accusation, but the truth of it is unavoidable. It is nearly unbearable to think that the acknowledgement that Hakyeon has sought for years was, all this time, something that Taekwoon had denied him. To even think that it was Taekwoon who had caused him to believe that he was undeserving of the love that he received—

“It was all I had, Sanghyuk. He never showed me anything else.”

Sanghyuk swallows. “He did not want to tell you his secrets.”

Taekwoon’s first instinct is anger. “You think he didn’t trust me enough to tell me?” he bites out, chest swelling, before the realization crashes upon him that yes, he had not been in a position to keep possibly treasonous secrets for the second prince. He quickly deflates. “I see. It was a farce, then.”

Sanghyuk shakes his head. “I don’t think that either.” He bites his lip, studying his knuckles in the moonlight. “I think his affections were genuine, although he could not bring himself to divulge many of his secrets.”

“Given his penchant for hiding things, I suppose I will never know,” Taekwoon snorts bitterly.

“Please, do not hate him for this,” Sanghyuk says quietly.

“I don’t hate him.” Taekwoon shakes his head. He could never.

 

Later, after Sanghyuk has left, he snuffs out the candles and collapses onto the bed. It was a lie, really. There are many things he does not know about Hakyeon, but he cannot bring himself to believe that the gentle smile and sweat-slick palms—the affection tilt of his head when his eyes lighted upon Taekwoon—was all fake. He could not bear the thought, really.

Alone in the dark, he lets himself mourn the boy he had once known, his quick wit and soft kisses and uncharacteristic shyness only when he wound their fingers together tightly, as if he would never let go. He grieves for the boy who perhaps never existed, and he grieves for the words he never said, when his love was needed the most.

When he and Hakyeon had parted, with a kiss to a gloved hand and nothing else, there had been a root of loss, and now it sprouts in his heart. Such strangers they have become, that such a goodbye would ever be considered sufficient. It might be his greatest fear, he thinks, to never have a chance to see Hakyeon’s face again, to die knowing that he had forgone the chance to speak one last word in his presence.

If he curls in on himself and weeps for the both of them, no one else sees.

 

“Tell me,” he asks Sanghyuk the next morning. “Tell me the king that you know.”

 _Perhaps I will learn to love him in a way that I am allowed_ , he thinks.

Sanghyuk seems to understand, even if he does not speak the second part aloud.

“You see,” he starts quietly as the morning sun rises, banishing the demons of the dark, and they set out anew. “The first time I saw His Majesty, I did not know that he was the king…”

It is not a story like the stories his mother told him before bed. It is a story that he thought he once knew, that now he realizes is only one facet of many, and he finds that there is more than enough space in his heart to save each piece that he hears. He has always seen the way they have looked at Hakyeon—with wonder, love, and maybe even worship—but now, slowly, he begins to see the king that they see as well.

When he makes an offhand remark that they have made faster progress than he had expected, Sanghyuk informs him, his tone chock-full of admiration, that Hakyeon had convinced his father to re-pave all the roads in the kingdom so that they would all have the same-sized ruts.

“The wagons we brought all have the same width. It is standard in the capital, now He was still working on spreading the practice to the north when the old king died,” he says with a proud smile. “He is working on building larger ships, too.”

Taekwoon thinks of the colossal ships he would see every time he journeyed to the coast for a job, newly-varnished and bearing the royal standards. He remembers seeing more and more every time, and he says, “I know.”

Sanghyuk turns the smile on him, exuding approval. “All that, before he was even crowned. He is wonderful, is he not?”

“He is,” Taekwoon nods.

There is still a dull ache in his chest, but he knows he must be content. It might not be what he had wished for when he was younger, but this is a love that he is allowed to have. At night, he grasps the vial of sleeping draught and knows that he needs to rest eventually, even if he must face his terrors.

 _Be brave_ , a voice that is not his own whispers in his mind, and he downs the vial in a single gulp.

 

Under the hazy influence of sleeping draught, Taekwoon’s dreams are clearer than ever. Sitting in the tree, he can barely remember that the landscape is not real.

He closes his eyes, feeling the cool breeze on his face. The moon is larger than normal, the whispers more coherent, and he can feel the prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes as he smooths his hands over the rough wood under him, trying to focus on the sensation of the bark.

 _It cannot be normal to have dreams so vivid_ , he thinks as he chokes on the cloying scent of ripe peaches, fingers digging into the wood until they sting from splinters. He wonders if he will still feel the phantom pain when he wakes. When he finally falls, the raw skin of his palms slapping against the surface of the water, he gasps for air, gulping in as much as he can before the flowers can suffocate him.

His eyes are closed tightly, so he almost misses it when a great, rumbling head breaks out from the surface of the water, breathing fiery ash and wood smoke. He opens his eyes to see a mass of glittering scales bowed low over his heart, its touch incredibly gentle for its size. The imperceptible contact grows in pressure until Taekwoon feels like his chest will cave in, fire burning deep in his core and spreading to his limbs, rolling and crackling under his skin until he wants to scream.

 

\--

 

He wakes to the sound of noise in the hall and rolls into a crouch before he is fully awake, one hand on his golden sword and the other grasping a cloak.

“Messenger! There’s a messenger here from the king!”

The shout rises from outside his room, followed by vigorous knocking.

“Let them enter!” Taekwoon says as he pulls on his boots.

The door opens, and a familiar figures steps through, tall and messy-haired.

“Master!”

Taekwoon’s eyes widen and he chokes, “Wonsik! You rode here alone?”

Wonsik nods, flushed faintly with pride, “The king has an important message for you, and he could not trust anyone else to deliver it safely. There is urgent news that we have discovered in the capital.”

He digs in his cloak and comes up with a sealed letter. Aside from the worn corners, the parchment is pristine and slightly warm from spending days carefully tucked against Wonsik’s person. Taekwoon breaks the blue seal open with his thumb, scanning it as quickly as he can. The contents are long, but Hakyeon makes no remarks or inquiries towards Taekwoon himself, only addressing his duties and the rest of the company under his command.

“Captain Seo has already begun preparations to send a smaller company north,” Wonsik tells him when he is finished. “He plans to join you in time for preparations for the full moon.”

“Good gods,” Taekwoon says heavily, setting the letters down and sitting in the only chair in the room. “I take it you wish to depart for the capital as soon as you can?”

Wonsik nods. “I hope to be on my way back before you start moving.”

“So soon?” he can’t help but ask. He already misses his apprentice’s soothing presence.

“The king has great use for my service. He couldn’t trust anyone else to travel alone.”

“Very well,” Taekwoon nods. “I will write a reply as quickly as I can manage.”

“Before that, Master, I have something for you.” Wonsik holds up a hand to stop him. “There is a second letter. His Majesty asked me to deliver it by hand. It is for your eyes, only.”

Taekwoon frowns as he takes the envelope, sealed in plain brown wax rather than Hakyeon’s blue. “Is something the matter in the palace?”

Wonsik shakes his head, lips flattening briefly. “It is…of a different nature. I will leave you to read it alone. Please call for me when you have devised a reply.”

Taekwoon watches the door close after Wonsik before he breaks the seal, eyes falling up on the first words.

 

_Dear Taekwoon,_

_As you know from my other letter, our futures may very well end within this moon cycle, and I could not stand for either of us to perish without sending you some sort of final message. Morbid, I know._

_I have written many drafts of this letter, and I find that there are no words to express entirely what I wish to tell you, so I will have to hope that I will have the chance to see you and impress upon you at a later time the true significance of what I say today. I hope with all my heart that these are not my last words to you, but it is a precaution I must take, insufficient though my words may be._

_I must admit, it was with great personal regret that I sent you to war. You have always been too honest for a life in the palace, too good-hearted to lead the life of a soldier at war. Some would say you were born to lead our last battle against the demons, the perfect partner to my brother’s ambition, but I believe that you were meant for more. You are not just the sword that carves your king’s name into history._

_On this point of thought, I always come to an impasse with myself. I long for all the world to know of your nobility and quiet strength, but I would never wish upon you the hardships and horrors of war. As your king, I would choose no other champion, but as your friend, I would choose anyone but you. Perhaps I will regret writing this letter as soon as I seal it, but I have given Wonsik clear instructions to deliver it into your hands. My next words are fanciful, perhaps, and you may judge for yourself whether or not they are my true sentiments, or a lie to, yet again, convince you to do my bidding. Only I will ever know which is the truth._

_I am afraid, Taekwoon. I know I need to show a strong face to the kingdom, but more than my own death, I am afraid that I will never have the chance to see you again. Some days, I dream for nothing more than my brother, alive again, and I loathe myself to the core for wishing that he was alive, if only so that I may no longer hold his kingly duties._

_If I could, I would take you far, far away from the demons and dragons and magic that drown this kingdom in bloodshed and war. It is a dream of another life, perhaps, to have the power to keep you safe without the responsibilities that bind me to kingship. It scares me how much I would be willing to sacrifice for you. In another life, I would have given everything to be with you, but this kingdom, heavy and bloody as it may be, is the only thing I cannot lose._

_It may be selfish of me to write to you of this, but I would rather be the recipient of your hate for the rest of my living days than watch you lowered into an early grave. Please, Taekwoon, promise that you will return to me. You may choose to believe that my heart would truly fall to ruins if I ever lost you again, or you may choose to believe that I cannot afford to relinquish your abilities as champion, whichever is more likely to bring you back to the palace alive and well._

_Entirely yours,_

_Hakyeon_

 

He swallows, closing his eyes. The letter shakes in his grip, and he feels the cold well of fear even more acutely than before. Nevertheless, he thinks he is ready.

He drafts the official letter first, stamping it with the champion’s seal in deep blue. He writes another to Eunkwang, in the likely case that he has left the capital by the time Wonsik returns. Then, he writes a short note to Jaehwan explaining the proceedings of his conversations with Sanghyuk.

Finally, when he composes himself, he calls Wonsik back in.

“You have read it?” his apprentice studies him, no doubt noting the tear tracks and red eyes. “Do you wish to reply?”

“Yes.” Taekwoon holds up a last note, only one line long. “Wait a moment, please.”

With steady hands, he draws out the mangled golden knife from his belt and pushes up his sleeve. In a quick motion, he slices the ribbon off his wrist, dropping it into the small square of parchment. He folds the corners inwards so that they hold the scrap securely, and carefully warms wax over a candle.

“You are sure that is long enough, Master?” Wonsik asks, eyeing the small square of paper.

“I am sure.”

Wonsik looks away as he presses shaking lips to the paper, eyes shut and head bowed in respect.

“Safe travels,” Taekwoon tells Wonsik when he is done and then, because he does not want to part like they did the last time, “You have been brave, Wonsik. I have not always shared my thoughts with you, but you must know that I am proud of you.”

Wonsik’s eyes shine, and he hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around Taekwoon’s midsection in a brief, tight embrace.

“You too, Master,” he says, wiping at his eyes. “Safe travels.”

Taekwoon waits until he is alone to sit down again. For the first time in years, his wrist is empty. He does not reread the letter—not yet—but he thinks, _Good luck_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note on major character death: as you've probably already noticed, major character death is something that could very well happen in this fic. i'm not going to spoil the ending by posting it here, but i want to make this reading experience as safe as possible for you all, so please know that if you send me an ask or private message on my [tumblr](http://heartsighcd.tumblr.com), i WILL let you know as much as you need about the potential of major character death in this fic.


	8. Mirror IV: Sanghyuk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back (in time for the comeback)!!!! wow this chapter was hard to write. honestly hyuk and bin have no idea what they're doing and they are an angry Mess™, but hopefully you'll find some enjoyment in their progress??
> 
> warnings: graphic violence and character death (including children), mentions of past dubcon, the usual amount of coercion/blackmail etc.

There is another story about another boy of another birthright, but really, all stories are just mirrors of one another. If you look closely, what appears to be pure circumstantial coincidence is just another mask for the inner workings of the most complex of minds.

Sanghyuk’s fate is decided two years before his birth, when his father happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Depending on the person you ask, it is also the right place and the right time.

Really, he doesn’t see much. The important part is that he hears the baby’s cry and the king’s voice and the gallop of hooves. The important part is that he hides behind the bushes until baby, king, and horse are long gone. The important part is he arrives home late that night, safe and shocked and alive.

Two years later, his first son is born, squealing and healthy and robust.

One of Sanghyuk’s earliest memories is of the fire in his mother’s smithy, iron burning hot white and red under his sisters’ hammers. He remembers the smell of new wood in his father’s workshop and he remembers the anticipation of breaking fresh bread at the kitchen table in the evenings after long days in the workshop. He remembers these things, even after his father’s death.

No one knows how Sanghyuk enters one of the most prestigious academies for young knights at the late age of fifteen. His father was a carpenter and his mother is a blacksmith and she does not have the money to send him to such a place. Yet, every month, the costs are paid in polished gold coins, and so he goes.

Three years later, he is appointed to the prince’s guard.

Sanghyuk never tells anyone, but he knows that there is a reason for everything.

 

\--

 

They reach the Fire two days after leaving Lady Son’s residence. Taekwoon left two knights and a load of gold to help them hold their walls, but Sanghyuk is not stupid enough to think they will see any of them again.

The night before, they rest at a village that is nearly empty. Without the presence of corpses or filled graves, Sanghyuk finds it almost hard to believe that there were once living beings haunting the unpaved roads. The remaining villagers accept the gold and torches Taekwoon offers, but Sanghyuk can tell that they have long given up hope.

It feels like a dream, sometimes, when they fight in the dark. The crash of metal and screams of pain fill the air, but the unnatural silence of their enemies unnerves Sanghyuk no matter how many nights they rise to arms. Shivering waves of lantern light cast a dreamlike haze over the deceptively one-sided battle; the cold terror grips tight in his chest, but his limbs feel as if he moves through syrup.

A sharp scream, too high to be anything but a child, cuts into the air, shaking him from his daze. He looks to his left in time to see a little boy clawing at the dirt as a demon crushes his legs in its vice-like mouth. Nearby, the dry bones and severed head of a knight, still sheathed in its helmet, roll to a clacking stop.

“Help,” the boy sobs, and Sanghyuk hacks uselessly at the monster, cutting away its horns and teeth and limbs until it dissipates in a screeching squeal.

When he turns back around, the little boy’s torso is already half gone, a mess of blackened organs and fresh blood spilling from his middle. His eyes glaze over, chest heaving with exertion, and Sanghyuk kneels to cradle his head. The boy’s lips flutter, eyes sliding uselessly, and Sanghyuk lowers his head so he may hear his last words.

“Help,” he breathes against Sanghyuk’s ear, “It hurts, sir. I’m cold. Help me, please.”

Sanghyuk curves over him helplessly, splaying his hands to try and warm his limbs, but the boy doesn’t seem to feel it, and his whispers continue incessantly.

“Look at me. Look at me, I’m here,” he says desperately, but the boy’s lips have gone slack, his body a limp weight in Sanghyuk’s arms.

Later, after the sun rises and the battle ends, as Sanghyuk helps to dig fresh graves, he realizes that they will be the first to contain real bodies. A hand settles on Sanghyuk’s shoulder, warm and large. Taekwoon’s nails are crusted with dirt, but his grip is strong and firm.

“Go rest,” he says, gentler than Sanghyuk is used to hearing.

“The grave,” Sanghyuk mutters, but his fingers and toes are numb from the cold desert night.

“I will finish it,” Taekwoon says, removing the shovel from his hands. “Go on.”

As Sanghyuk stumbles away on weak legs, he hears the crunch of Taekwoon’s shovel breaking ground.

 

The next morning, Sanghyuk wakes to a great commotion in the camp. A shout of “Messenger!” arises, dragging him from his bedroll to the tent flap, scrubbing at tired eyes with the heel of his hand.

The messenger limps as she makes her way to the main tent, and Sanghyuk catches a glimpse of corroded flesh, crawling with green rot and dark flames, as the hem of her trousers rides up to expose her ankle.

The figure trailing behind her, though, grabs Sanghyuk’s attention before he can see more. The familiar stormy expression mars a delicate face, pretty lips twisted into a scowl.

“Message for the champion from Lord Im!” Hongbin shouts in his low tenor, not even sparing a glance for Sanghyuk when he passes by. His injured arm curls gingerly at his side, but he runs ahead of the messenger to pound on the pole outside the largest tent.

A moment later, after some signal that escapes Sanghyuk’s ears, the two step inside, and the flap shuts behind them. Sanghyuk itches to run in after them, but half the camp is already crowded in the main area, hoping to catch the messengers on their way out.

When they finally emerge, this time with Taekwoon, Hongbin finally looks around and catches Sanghyuk’s eye. Sanghyuk nods, but Hongbin’s mouth hardens, his gaze dropping.

Taekwoon whispers something to Hongbin, who frowns, although he doesn’t look up. The messenger, meanwhile, is quickly intercepted by the physicians, who guide her across camp to be treated. With one last glance in her direction, Taekwoon nods to the gathered watchers and calls the senior officers to convene.

Ignoring inquiring glances and shouted questions, Hongbin looks Sanghyuk in the eye and jerks his head towards a more deserted corner of camp, slinking off before the crowd can catch him. Sanghyuk finds him hiding behind his own tent, hands in his trouser pockets and boots scuffing at the dirt.

He looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, face sliding into a neutral expression when he sees Sanghyuk.

“You have a reassignment,” he mutters, eyes darting back and forth. “You are to accompany me back to my previous post. We’re partners now.”

Sanghyuk frowns. “What of Chansik?”

Hongbin blinks hard, looking down. “He was killed.”

“Oh.” Chansik was kind to him when he first entered the guard, even though they never grew close. He had been Sanghyuk’s first sparring partner, and had lent him a bootlace when Sanghyuk’s had snapped, to his embarrassment, in the middle of training. He had also been one of Hongbin’s few friends in the guard. “I'm sorry.”

Hongbin bites his lip. “I'm needed back at my post. I only left to escort Lord Im’s messenger to camp. Taekwoon wishes to speak to you when he is finished, but we will depart soon after.”

“I have nearly nothing to pack. We just arrived yesterday.”

Hongbin nods shortly. “Good.” He chews his lip again, frowning as he looks up into Sanghyuk’s eyes. He stares for a few moments, as if lost in thought.

Finally, he gives a half-sigh, half-grunt of frustration, shaking his head as if to rid himself of his thoughts. He steps forward, and Sanghyuk tenses with anticipation. As always, he stops when he’s a mere hairsbreadth away, eyes flicking to focus on Sanghyuk’s lips, hands hovering at his elbows. He blinks, and Sanghyuk can count his eyelashes, fanned against his dirt-smudged cheek.

“I—,” he starts in a whisper with no intent to finish the sentence. Instead, he lets the word brush against Sanghyuk’s lips, lets it sink into him and hum under his skin.

Sanghyuk can’t help but fall forward, and the warmth of Hongbin’s palms against his elbows feels too gentle for the bruising force that he puts behind the kiss. He pushes, goads, and Hongbin lets him guide them into a hard and desperate pace.

When he finally pulls back, Hongbin’s cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and hair mussed. He looks up at Sanghyuk for a moment, slightly dazed, before he remembers himself and quickly removes his hands. Sanghyuk opens his mouth to speak, but Hongbin’s expression shutters first, and he steps back before another word can pass between them.

“You should check to see that you have packed enough,” he says before he walks away.

 

\--

 

The first time Sanghyuk sees the crown prince, he is ten years old and does not understand what it means for such a well-dressed young man to be wandering the streets on foot. He looks uncomfortable in his sumptuous robes as people drop to their knees around him.

The prince has an upturned nose and clear eyes. The cast of his skin is the color of the honey Sanghyuk’s mother keeps in the jar above the stove, just out of reach of his short fingers. Sanghyuk stares until the prince turns and catches his eye. The prince looks surprised for a moment, before a small smile curls at the corners of his mouth. Sanghyuk’s mouth falls open a little further, and the prince lets out a faint snort.

“Your Highness!”

The moment is broken as Sanghyuk’s mother lays a callused hand on his shoulder, pulling him into a bow.

“Good day,” the prince says in a soft voice as he passes by, and Sanghyuk’s mother thanks him.

It’s a childish infatuation, his sisters say. No one pays him any mind, and he cherishes the idea of the beautiful prince like young boys are wont to do. What’s the chance he would ever speak to the prince again, anyway?

The next time he sees the prince, almost two years later, Sanghyuk recognizes him. He wears plain clothes and a knife wrapped in cloth sits at his waist, but Sanghyuk knows a prince when he sees one.

“What sharp eyes you have,” the prince says, smiling softly and ruffling his hair. “What is your name?”

He doesn’t know it at the time, but Sanghyuk ties his fate for the next ten years when he opens his mouth and answers.

He is by far not the only person to identify him, he knows, but he is the first, and thus he is special. He basks in the small jump in his chest when he hears the prince’s joyous voice calling out his name.

“Sanghyuk, come tell me what this means,” he says, beckoning with his hand, or, “Sanghyuk, tell me how your days have passed since I last saw you.”

It is foolish pride, he knows, to think that the prince would have interest in his person beyond his role as occasional guide—he isn’t even the only person the prince addresses by name—and yet, it is so easy to drown in the prince’s wide smile and warm laughter and bright eyes. He is older and mysterious and handsome and he pays attention to the nameless carpenter’s son, and so Sanghyuk lets his boyish heart dream.

 

In the autumn of his thirteenth year, Sanghyuk’s father’s workshop burns down in a fire that sweeps through the tightly-packed streets. A carpenter with no wood is a useless man, and his father takes to sitting in the small kitchen and draining bottles of cheap wine. As winter comes, Sanghyuk sits at the forge on nights his mother does not go home, wrapping himself in the stifling heat of the flames as he watches her pound lengths of iron. Sometimes, his sisters take up hammers themselves, eager to learn their future trade, but Sanghyuk is never permitted to join.

When the winter is at its harshest, when their table has finally become bare, Sanghyuk lays awake in his bed and listens to the rise and fall of his parents’ voices as they berate and console one another in turns. He listens as the door opens and shuts and until he falls asleep, he listens to the sound of his mother’s footsteps pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

In the morning, there is a full breakfast laid on the table and his father sits, red-cheeked and smiling, at its head. Sanghyuk and his sisters stare at feast before them with wide eyes and gaping mouths, but it is not long before they descend on the food like vultures upon carrion.

“Eat your fill, child,” his father encourages, ruffling Sanghyuk’s hair with fond strokes of his big, broad hand. “Build your strength. When I rebuild the shop, you will start learning my trade.”

His mother watches with pinched lips and folded arms and says not a word the entire meal.

 

Sanghyuk grows like a weed and eats like a horse. He is still skinny and small for his age, but his bones only seem to want to expand in one direction. His sisters poke his stick-thin arm and giggle amongst themselves, calling him little grasshopper and twig-boy.

On the few occasions he sees the prince, he lavishes Sanghyuk with praise on his growth. Sanghyuk can’t help but grow besotted with the way he smiles indulgently, small and private, as if his admiration in the moment exists purely for Sanghyuk and no one else.

In the summertime, his father begins to rebuild his workshop with slow, steady progress. When he comes home in the evenings, he sits Sanghyuk in the kitchen and watches him whittle wood, stopping him once in a while to demonstrate with his own knife. Sanghyuk gazes at the slim handle of it, dark with polish and elegantly carved. No matter how his blade chips at the wood, he can never seem to draw out the shapes trapped in the wood.

At the end of the summer, his father takes him to see the completed workshop. It smells of wood stain and fresh resin and sun.

“This will be yours when I am too old to carry on the trade,” his father tells him, and Sanghyuk cannot even begin to fathom how old he will be when such a time could come.

For now, he does not mind that he has so much to learn. He has no brothers—he has no one to badger him as he works like how his sisters chatter and prod each other by the forge—but he can sit by his father’s side and watch him point out the various tools and their uses.

 

The next spring, just as Sanghyuk graduates from basic whittling, the palace burns with rebellion and nearly half the Order is convicted and executed in the ensuing manhunt. The heads of traitors line the city walls, and the second prince quietly disappears from their shabby streets—so quietly, in fact, that Sanghyuk may be the only one to notice.

Business, on the other hand, rises drastically as his father is inundated with casket orders. Though his specialization is in cooperage, he offers a cheaper price for a plainer casket than most coffin makers are willing to sell. Sanghyuk, who has yet to start his first barrel, spends his time running back and forth between his parents’ workshops, fetching nails for his father and iron hoops for himself. That spring, he makes barrel after barrel, keeping an eye on his father’s work as he sands down planks and carefully fits them together.

Nearly half a year later, just days after he finishes a barrel his father deems mediocre, he wakes in the middle of the night to pounding on the door. His mother and sisters are spending the night in the smithy to finish a late order, and he left his father hours ago at the workshop to finish tallying up expenses for the month.

It’s the prince. It’s his honey-skinned, soft-smiled prince. He wears a cold expression that Sanghyuk has never seen on his open face. There are two knights standing behind him in hooded cloaks, with only the golden pins on their breasts to identify them.

“Your Highness,” Sanghyuk mumbles and bows, glancing at the knights. “What can I do to help you?”

The prince takes a deep breath. “I have come to impart unfortunate news. Your father has been killed in an accident.”

Looking back on this moment, Sanghyuk can never recall exactly what he says after that. All he can remember is the low buzzing in his ears as he stares into the prince’s dead eyes and recognizes the layers and layers of deceit.

“You’re lying,” he interrupts quietly. “Why are you lying?”

The prince does not try to refute the accusation. Sanghyuk, they both know, has always had sharp eyes since he was a boy.

“Give us a moment in private,” the prince tells the knights, and when they begin to protest, “A moment. In _private_.”

Never, in all these years, has Sanghyuk heard the prince speak with authority, and yet it seems more natural than any other word that have left his mouth since he showed up in Sanghyuk’s doorway. The knights step back.

“Your father was in possession of a secret that the royal family wanted very much to hide,” the prince tells him. “He threatened to divulge this secret to a very dangerous group of people if we did not give him what he wanted. Do you know what this secret was?”

Sanghyuk thinks of his father sitting by his bedside, telling him tales of lost princes and dead queens, and he thinks of his mother’s footsteps seeping through the walls of their drafty house, back and forth, back and forth. He thinks of the prince, seeing—no, _choosing_ —him from the throngs of children running through the streets, and he thinks of the rich foods that have graced their table and the thick lumber that his father used to rebuild his workshop.

His heart runs like a rabbit in his chest when he says, “No.”

Sanghyuk’s eyes may be sharp, but the prince’s eyes are sharper.

“I think,” Hakyeon says, “I think you know exactly what secret I speak of.”

Sanghyuk swallows around a dry throat.

“In fact, I think your mother knows, too. And your sisters, if what your father told me is correct.”

Sanghyuk squeezes his eyes shut. “Why would you kill him now? Years after he first asked?”

“We might have kept entertaining him, had the rebellion not occurred.” Hakyeon’s jaw tightens, but his gaze never wavers when he says, “He was too much of a threat; it was no longer worth the investment.”

The prince either pities him or thinks him too insignificant to bother killing, because he never executes Sanghyuk for the blow he lays to his face.

 

\--

 

Sanghyuk never thought the desert would be so cold.

During the day, the unforgiving sun blazes down on their necks, turning exposed skin tender and pink, but at night, the chill is unescapable. It seeps through the lacquered leather and steel of his armor, through the rough cloth of his shirt into his very core like a slow, creeping mist. He feels stiff and slow more often than not during the long nights, cold and fear alike seizing at his limbs.

Hongbin’s assigned location is barely over two days’ ride from camp. To reach it, they travel along the outer edge of the small forest that houses the Fire, passing through small ghost villages along the way. The small copse of trees stands stark against the flat desert landscape, feeding on the force of the Fire’s magic rather than water and soil.

Back when the Fire was first lit, it had represented triumph and victory and strength—the beginning of a new era. People flocked from all over the kingdom to settle in the warmth of its eternal flames, adapting to the harsh desert landscape through the years. Now, the empty buildings are nothing but relics housing the recently departed and soon-to-be dead alike.

Sanghyuk packed his bedroll back when he left camp with his horse so that he would not have to sleep on the beds of dead men, and Hongbin did not utter a single word in mocking when he noticed. At their departure, Taekwoon had given them a deep bow, utterly unbefitting their ranks. It was a meager thanks for what could be their last sacrifices, but Sanghyuk could tell his concern was genuine when he clasped their shoulders, telling them to take care.

They reach their post midmorning of the third day, with a somewhat mild fanfare upon their arrival. What people they pass stop upon seeing them, shouting in greeting to Hongbin and nodding somewhat cautiously to Sanghyuk, a foreign face. The town is small enough that most streets are too narrow for their horses, but Sanghyuk still sees more people than he has encountered in the past five days.

“Most of the people in the surrounding villages have gathered here,” Hongbin tells him as they dismount. He waves a boy to take their horses, greeting him with a ruffle of his hair when he comes to take their reins. “I’ll introduce you to Sir Shin. These lands belong to his sister, but she had fallen ill days before I departed. He serves as the acting captain of her knights.”

Sir Shin is young. He looks no older than Hongbin, but he explains that he only took on the position of captain after the previous one was killed a fortnight ago, before the barriers had been fully constructed. His palm is warm when he clasps Sanghyuk’s hand, thanking him for his aid.

“Call me Donggeun,” he says, offering wan smile. “You must be quite capable to enter the king’s guard at your age.”

“He graduated from the academy at the top of his year,” Hongbin says before Sanghyuk can open his mouth. “He is among the best in the guard.”

Sanghyuk’s stomach twists as Hongbin avoids his gaze.

They spend the day checking on the boundaries, stoking hearths, and helping melt and drip what gold is left around the pikes that surround the inhabited center of the town. As the afternoon wanes, the young and able-bodied citizens gather in the town square with gold-dipped pitchforks and stakes, and everyone else retreats behind locked and bolted doors.

Hongbin shows Sanghyuk to his old quarters. Chansik’s sparse belongings still clutter his side of the room, and Sanghyuk wants to retch at the thought of occupying his old cot. Instead, he lays his bedroll down near the center, encroaching on Hongbin’s half, and Hongbin lets him.

They dress in silence marred only by the clink of armor and rustle of cloth. Sanghyuk fumbles with the buckles at the back of his chest-plate until he feels fingers brush his away, not ungently. Hongbin works with deft hands. His eyes, focused on the leather straps, do not meet Sanghyuk’s.

Sanghyuk’s throat is dry when he steps away.

“Good luck,” he rasps when he finds his breath again.

Hongbin looks surprised at the sound of his voice. After a moment, he nods, “You too.”

 

The first night ends badly.

It goes well at first. They rally the townspeople into a tight, practiced formation and wait for the first breach of the defenses. The demons mostly come through the spaces they identified as weaker when they toured the boundaries earlier in the day, and it is easy to fend them off when they are predictable.

Then, the eastern side collapses, and the demons swarm in like a wave of darkness, swallowing nearly ten people whole. Sanghyuk can’t help but freeze the moment he hears as those first screams are cut off into ominous silence.

“I will go,” Hongbin says, motioning for a group of fifteen to follow him as he runs in the direction of the screams. “You stay here with Donggeun.”

“I will go with you,” Sanghyuk tells him, surveying their surroundings with a quick glance. “You will need my backup for a break that big in the perimeters.”

“No.” The sharpness in Hongbin’s voice throws Sanghyuk aback. They have been trained well enough to know better than to speak in such raised tones with so many demons around. “You stay here. Donggeun needs you.”

Sanghyuk frowns. “He doesn’t. There are more than enough people to watch the barriers.”

Hongbin catches his arm when Sanghyuk tries to shove past him. “Listen to me,” he hisses, “You need to listen to what I say. You’re too—”

Sanghyuk pulls against his grip, glaring. “Is now really the right time to be questioning my abilities? We don't have all the time in the world to stand around and argue, if you haven't noticed."

Hongbin looks almost surprised. His hand loosens enough for Sanghyuk to wrench his arm out. "I wasn't—"

Sanghyuk doesn’t bother to wait to hear the rest of the sentence as he runs in the direction of the breach.

The morning finds them both standing in the town square, demon dust and sand stinging their eyes. Sanghyuk draws a hand down his face, screams still ringing in his ears.

“Go back to our quarters. I will finish reporting with Donggeun,” Hongbin says, although the bruises stand stark under his eyes.

“If you can stay awake for this long, then I can too,” Sanghyuk says mulishly, even as his limbs ache from exhaustion.

“It was your first night here. I know you are tired. Go to sleep,” Hongbin says in a sharper voice, and Sanghyuk is too tired to argue.

He trudges back to their room alone.

 

\--

 

If his father had died of normal causes, Sanghyuk might have inherited his workshop. However, his father once held a secret, a secret that lived on through his wife and son and two daughters, and thus, they fall under the scrutiny of the prince.

In the end, his mother sells the old workshop to an expanding competitor, and Sanghyuk enrolls in the academy at the expense of the royal family, swearing fealty to the newly-instated crown prince. It is a better fate than death.

During the day, he struggles to train with the other students, feeling clumsy and gawky and old as he attempts to imitate their fluid forms with his inexperienced limbs. At night, when the moon is fully risen, he slips into scholar’s robes and drifts into the prince’s chambers, always waiting in the hidden alcove by the door until Hakyeon opens the door to let him in.

Some nights, the prince questions him on the knights and their gossip. He catalogues every piece of information with the same expressionless nod, no matter how absurd it is. Other nights, he tests Sanghyuk on skills he recently learned in the academy, grilling him with relentless questions until his head spins.

“You are learning to be useful,” Hakyeon tells Sanghyuk whenever he asks the purpose of this exercise or that tidbit of information.

The prince works in mysterious ways, he learns, and the layers and layers of secrets do not leave Hakyeon’s eyes for a single moment. It makes him curious some days, when he is tired of the aching loathing that burns in his gut. On those days, he wonders what he would see if he peeled back the secrets. He wonders if there would be anything there at all.

 

The first time Sanghyuk steps into the sparring ring, he is thoroughly beaten. It is within the expectations of all eyes watching, and he does not miss the laughs and sneers that follow him when he drags himself up from the dirt back to his seat.

There is one gaze in particular, though, that freezes the breath in his throat and pins his arms to his sides. At the very edge of the horde of students stands a boy with round eyes and strikingly high cheekbones and the most hideous expression of contempt twisting his pretty lips.

“Lee Hongbin,” their instructor calls, and Sanghyuk loses the name of his opponent to the wave of whispers that pass through his classmates as the boy stands, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles are white.

A permanent scowl mars his face, and his fury only grows as he pummels his opponent mercilessly, swinging his wooden blade with deceptively wild strikes until the instructor hurriedly calls the end of the match. Sanghyuk watches, transfixed, as he kicks the other boy’s sword away, one last humiliation, and returns to his seat, alone in the sea of chatter. There is no applause for him, not like there was for the girl who beat Sanghyuk just moments before.

 

Lee Hongbin is a genius.

That’s what Sanghyuk learns in the next few weeks. He is a genius in finding the stretch of muscle beneath joints, the pulse of blood in the throat, and the gasp of breath between ribs. He is a genius in pushing back all barriers until his opponents are thoroughly thrashed, submitting to the sharpness of his blade.

Lee Hongbin is deadly. He is acerbic. He is stubborn and brash and proud.

“He is a late entry, just like you. Why don’t you instruct him on how to improve as you did last year?” their instructor says.

Sanghyuk cowers under the force of Hongbin’s stare. He doesn’t want to bother, Sanghyuk can tell. The genius—the untouchable flower—has no time for this weak, slow boy, this dead carpenter’s son, and Sanghyuk flushes with rage and mortification when the instructor leaves.

The next time they are matched to practice, Hongbin leaves dark bruises all over his ribs and spits on his worn shield when he is done. The message is clear, even when Hongbin doesn’t bother to voice it aloud: Sanghyuk doesn’t—will never—belong in this palace.

It’s humiliating and degrading and Sanghyuk can do nothing to refute him. He feels, day after day, as Hongbin’s dull blade pounds purple and blue patterns into his skin, and he nurses wound after hidden wound under his clothes. Even when he sleeps, he can see the look in Hongbin’s eyes, the contempt clear as day.

“I want to defeat Lee Hongbin,” Sanghyuk grits out when he visits the prince’s chambers at night.

Hakyeon snorts, “You are more foolish than you appear if you think I’ll teach you just so you can defeat some boy in the academy.”

“He is first in his year,” Sanghyuk snarls.

Hakyeon waves his hand. “And I have greater plans for you than ranking first in your year.”

“I will defeat him and join the king’s guard and serve you until you die. Is that satisfactory?”

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow. “You would do all that for this boy?”

“What does it matter to you?” Sanghyuk mutters sullenly. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me without complaint.”

Hakyeon gives him a thoughtful look. After a moment, he nods. “I will teach you to fight, then.”

And he does. He teaches Sanghyuk every trick in the book, and then a few. He even goes as far as to keep wooden training swords in his study, and they push his furniture in the antechamber to the edges of the room so that they may spar on nights he deems it necessary.

Sanghyuk fights Lee Hongbin day after day and studies with the prince night after night. In the end, he never wins once before Hongbin graduates.

 

\--

 

Sanghyuk wakes to see Hongbin already sitting in the open window, polishing his sword. He fumbles for his flask, seeking to rid the dry taste of desert sand and morning stink from his mouth.

"I drew water from the well," Hongbin tells him. "Go wash yourself."

When Sanghyuk returns, his collar wet and hair rumpled, he's still sitting in the same position with one leg up, sword in his lap. He points to a spread of stale bread and wrinkled apples lying on the ground next to him, and Sanghyuk grunts in acknowledgment as he drops down on the ground and begins to eat.

"Did you sleep?" Sanghyuk asks between mouthfuls.

Hongbin nods.

"You talked to Donggeun?"

Another nod.

"Do you have anything to say about," Sanghyuk clears his throat, "about last night?"

“You were being reckless,” Hongbin says, not looking away from his sword.

“I was not being reckless,” Sanghyuk retorts shortly.

“You’re too stubborn.”

“I made the right decision.”

Hongbin looks exhausted. “This is why I said you weren’t ready.”

There’s something about the way that he phrases the words that pricks the back of Sanghyuk’s mind.

“You think yourself invincible, I can tell. You think you will never die, because you are young and strong and brave. You don’t know fear, and you have grown foolish. You’re so young—”

“You said I wasn’t ready?” Sanghyuk interrupts.

Hongbin stills.

Something is wrong. The last slow vestiges of sleep dissipate as he makes the connection. Sanghyuk still remembers Taekwoon’s words that morning. _Did you want to go?_

“You told Taekwoon.” From the way Hongbin freezes, Sanghyuk knows he is right. “I wasn’t assigned to travel with the supply wagons at all, but you asked him to reassign me.” He can feel the anger begin to boil in his gut. “How could you? How childish can you be?”

“I was not being childish,” Hongbin says, his face closing off defensively.

“And Chansik—” Sanghyuk watches Hongbin’s face drain of blood. “Was Chansik supposed to be in the supply line?”

“I don’t know.”

“He _died_.”

“You think I don’t know that? In his position—”

“It should have been me!” he says, whirling on Hongbin, registering a savage relish at the shock on his face. “It should have been me in his place!”

“Stop that,” Hongbin closes his eyes tightly. “It should not have been you.”

“That was _my_ role,” Sanghyuk snarls. “You made Taekwoon transfer me! It was _mine_ and it should have been me to fight, and now—”

“Shut up,” Hongbin interrupts, almost pleading. “I did it for you, don’t you understand?”

“Don’t blame me for your guilt,” Sanghyuk spits, “I didn’t ask for your penance.”

“It was not penance.” His face twists painfully. “I merely thought you were too young to die.”

“Too young,” Sanghyuk laughs incredulously. “ _Too young_. I watched a monster devour a little boy just days ago, you know.” Hongbin flinches. “I watched it eat him, legs first, so he could continue to scream as it poisoned his blood and tore out his guts and when I finally killed it, there was not a hint of flesh on the burnt bones that it spat out. You think I haven’t witnessed horrors here, either?”

Hongbin shakes his head, face pale. “I did not think—”

“You did not,” Sanghyuk agrees, stepping forward until he forces Hongbin against the wall. He tilts his chin to look down at him. “I am not a child, and you were a fool if you thought you could repent for years of harassment by humiliating me and degrading my rank.”

“It was not my intention to do so,” Hongbin says hoarsely. “I do not doubt your abilities as a knight and servant to the king. I am sorry for what I have done to you, and I did not mean to further aggravate you.”

“To aggravate me,” Sanghyuk repeats woodenly. “You did not mean to aggravate me.”

Hongbin squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head weakly.

“It is far too late to worry about aggravating me, don’t you think?”

“I only meant well.” His eyes are still closed.

“Look at me,” Sanghyuk says woodenly and then, when Hongbin doesn’t move, “For gods’ sakes, _look_ at me.”

He opens his eyes, and the dull expression on his face makes Sanghyuk queasy.

“Why do you go so far out of your way to spite me when you still think me so far beneath you? You call me immature and degrade my swordplay all these years, and even now, as we are on the brink of death, you mock me with your concern. Why are you so convinced I am nothing but a novice to be protected?”

Aside from a slight tremble in his lower lip, Hongbin betrays no reaction.

“Are you not going to say anything?” Sanghyuk demands. When no reply is forthcoming, he steps back, lip curling in disgust. “All these years, I have only ever wanted one thing from you, and it is not your lukewarm pity.”

At these words, Hongbin finally flinches, but Sanghyuk is already backing away. He waits one last moment in the doorway to see if Hongbin will open his mouth, but the moment passes in silence. He snorts, shutting the door hard behind him.

 

In the next nights, they watch in silence as the moon waxes nearly full in the sky, dread digging heavier in their chests. The dust in the streets grows until every night, they stand ankle-deep in ashes, and only bones fill the graves that they dig during the day.

Sanghyuk never ends up speaking with Hongbin again about their argument. They never end up saying much at all, in fact.

The first evening after, Sanghyuk thinks Hongbin will avoid him until nightfall. He is surprised to see him standing in their room come late afternoon, buckling his armor with an almost ritual-like deliberation.

He is even more surprised when Hongbin nudges him to the wall, heavy gloves grasping his waist through the light fabric of his shirt, and lets Sanghyuk press slow, deep kisses into his mouth. When he finally releases his grip on Sanghyuk’s hips, his chest rises in hard breaths.

Just as with every other time, it's Hongbin who turns away first.

"I'm sorry," he says. Sanghyuk doesn't gather the courage to ask what for.

Sanghyuk stares after him for a long while, and he does not think about the way Hongbin’s fine hair felt tangled between his fingers, and how hot the soft skin on the back of his neck burned under his palms. He does not think about the way his heart stutters in his chest when he pictures the bow of Hongbin’s lips and the dimple that carves into his cheek when he twists his lips just so.

Time after time, as he watches Hongbin leave, he wishes, just once, that Hongbin will look him in the eye when he pulls away.

It's too late—too painful—to think of any of these things, and Sanghyuk’s chest tightens every day at sundown at the possibility that he will never get the chance to feel them again. Every night, he holds his breath until morning, and every day, he waits for Hongbin to come to him in fragile silence.

He does not dare stay angry in this cycle of days where each could be their last, yet no understanding passes between them, and Sanghyuk cannot bear to admit, not even to himself, why he fears so sharply the thought of losing Hongbin.

 

 

\--

 

In the winter of his first year in the palace, Sanghyuk visits the newly-inducted Grand Scholar and does exactly as Hakyeon instructs.

He waits until he is pushed up against the wall, a knife to his throat, before he flashes the golden pin that Hakyeon had lent him. A cold breeze flutters around his ankles, stirring at the hem of his borrowed robes. The Grand Scholar still grips the end of Sanghyuk’s apprentice-white sash in his hand, but his face has gone deathly pale.

“What is he hiding from me?”

Sanghyuk leans in close—close enough that no one else could possibly hear—and for the first time since he was a small, small boy, he speaks the secret that cost his father’s life.

 

There are eyes in the palace aside from his own. Hakyeon warns him about them, too.

“When the king finds you—and he _will_ find you—you must not speak a word of your father’s secret. If he suspects you know anything, you will be killed, and your mother and sisters will not be spared.”

When the king finally calls him, though, not long after his entry into the guard, he just looks at Sanghyuk with old, tired eyes.

“You look like a smart boy,” he says. “Trustworthy, unlike your father.”

Sanghyuk hides the spike of rage that thunders in his pulse.

“He trusts you, at least, and I trust my son’s judgment, though he can be too soft-hearted at times,” the king sighs. “He fought so hard to protect a man who could take away his right to the throne with a single misspoken word. He is not quite ready to rule yet, I suppose.”

Sanghyuk stands, rooted to the spot, as his entire world rearranges with a dismissive wave of the king’s hand.

“Do not fail him,” he says with the presumptuous air of one who has never been refused in his lifetime. “I thought he would keep the young champion as his confidante, but he was the first to be sent away. My son is wary of everyone in this palace. Do not betray his trust.”

Later, when he visits Hakyeon’s chambers, he asks, “Who was the one who killed my father?”

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow. “It’s been years, Sanghyuk. Surely you haven’t been unaware this entire time.”

“Was it you?”

Hakyeon blinks and hesitates for just a moment too long. “Who else?”

It is not an answer, and it is not a lie. Not quite. Sanghyuk swallows against the nausea building in his throat.

Too late, Sanghyuk sees it. There he is, his honey-skinned, soft-smiled prince. He never left, Sanghyuk realizes, even as he studies the impeccable iron and stone of Hakyeon’s façade. The face he shows to the outside world, genial and confident, is not quite either of these extremes.

Sanghyuk feels none of the idol worship anymore—the memory of that fateful night will never let him—but there is a part of Hakyeon that still belongs to him, after all these years. Perhaps he will never give Sanghyuk another tender smile again, but for the first time in years, Sanghyuk is grateful for his hatred. It makes Hakyeon open and honest in ways he will never show to the hundreds of other palace inhabitants, all under the king’s thumb.

In the end, he never tells Hakyeon all that he knows.

 

Before Sanghyuk leaves to fight in a hopeless war, there are two final betrayals.

Here is the first: “Please,” he can’t help but plead. “Please, you cannot think to end your life for the sake of this war.”

They stand on opposite sides of the small table, the moon waning to a sliver outside the window. Hakyeon purses his lips, and he looks at Sanghyuk like he is trying to solve a puzzle.

“I am merely preparing for a likely outcome.”

“You can’t know that your death will be the solution.”

“The last book is barely the thickness of my thumb, and I will end with its last page. If it is my duty to die for the sake of this kingdom, then so be it.”

“You don’t understand,” Sanghyuk says, gripping the edge of the table in frustration. “Who will rule after you are gone? Will you leave the kingdom to its own devices with your death?”

“I have an heir in mind,” Hakyeon says calmly. “And it is of no consequence to you what my plans are. You are only to act on the orders that I give you.”

“Of course it is of consequence to me what you do!” Sanghyuk bursts. “I have kept your closest secrets for the last four years! I think I deserve to know what you plan on doing if you think you will _die_ by the end!”

Hakyeon gives him a long look. “You care?”

“I care for you, of course I do,” Sanghyuk says, and his heart pulls at the genuine surprise on Hakyeon’s face.

“I see,” Hakyeon says softly. He looks down, and the fringe of his hair hangs low, obscuring his expression. “Thank you, Sanghyuk. You may go.”

“Majesty—”

“You may go. I know you have many things left to do before your departure tomorrow morning.”

When he leaves, he senses an end of things. Sanghyuk has always been sharp-eyed, and he knows how Hakyeon looks at Jaehwan and Eunkwang and the rest. He could never bear to watch them lay their lives down, one by one, to keep him on his golden throne. He could never bear to watch them shoulder the burden of their devotion to him with all the knowledge of his most secret failures.

He knows, when he retreats from the room, that he will likely never bear one of Hakyeon’s secrets again.

 

The other betrayal happens mere days earlier, in the shadow of stinging defeat.

The first time Hongbin kisses him, Sanghyuk feels as if he is crumbling to pieces.

“Do you think of me doing this?” Hongbin snarls before he crashes their faces together in an ugly, forceful clash of teeth and lips and skin and blood.

Sanghyuk hates the victorious sneer on Hongbin’s mouth right before he leans in for the kill.

Sanghyuk hates the bolt of humiliation that shoots through his weak knees as Hongbin reaches a hand under his shirt, squeezing too tightly and biting too hard and digging in his nails, deeper and deeper until Sanghyuk imagines he has reached the bone underneath.

Sanghyuk hates the sound that pulls from his throat, as if his ribs are cracking one by one under Hongbin’s roaming fingers, crunching into fine dust that catches in his lungs and chokes him until he can no longer breathe. Most of all, Sanghyuk hates the rush of heady desire that drives straight to his groin as Hongbin pushes him against the wall and reaches straight into his chest to grip his heart with rough, careless hands.

He pulls away with a desperate sound wrenching from his throat, and Hongbin is staring at him with shock. He doesn’t bother to speak again, but escapes with heavy shoulders and a thudding heart, and it isn’t until he finds a secluded alcove to hide in that he realizes his cheeks are wet with tears.

Even after all these years, he is not worthy of victory to Lee Hongbin.

 

Their first night out from the palace, as he watches Hongbin apologize with dull eyes, Sanghyuk thinks, bitterly, that this man won’t even let him take his revenge properly.

“I should never have—,” he bites his lip, stilling. His gaze is dead, but there is no anger or frustration directed at Sanghyuk. It is as if he doesn’t even see him, and fresh humiliation digs deep under Sanghyuk’s skin.

“Don’t look down on me,” he interrupts, and a deep ache settles in his gut when Hongbin’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t want weak apologies.”

Hongbin bows his head further. “Anything you want in compensation, then.”

“If I wanted revenge, I would take it myself,” Sanghyuk snarls, taking a step forward. He draws himself to his full height so he must bend his head to stare into Hongbin’s eyes, an action clearly intended to goad.

Hongbin doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he looks up, almost resigned. “Then do it.”

“Why are you so eager for me to punish you?” Sanghyuk tilts his head, relishing the slightest twitch of Hongbin’s mouth. “You give me free reign. How do you know I will not do something cruel?”

“I have faith in your character,” Hongbin says without real meaning in his voice.

“You _want_ to be hurt,” Sanghyuk guesses, and he is rewarded with another twitch. Finally, he thinks, finally he can use the skills that Hakyeon has taught him for his own purposes. “What for? So that you may feel released from your guilt? How selfish.”

The corner of Hongbin’s lips turns down. “Then what will you have me do?”

“I never said I wouldn’t take my revenge,” Sanghyuk says quickly, hating himself even as he steps closer again. He sounds like an overeager child, and his face heats.

Hongbin catches on when he is a mere hands’ breadth away, close enough that their toes touch. He stills immediately, eyes squeezing tight as he leans, pliant, against the wall, in a laughably perfect reversal of their roles mere days before.

Sanghyuk halts when he can feel the ghost of Hongbin’s breath against his lips. Even now, he cannot bring himself to reciprocate the action, and as he stares down at Hongbin’s placid face, all he can remember is the ferocity of that moment against the wall, scraping rough and harsh against his tender organs.

Hongbin opens his eyes when he realizes Sanghyuk is not moving.

“I—” Sanghyuk’s mouth dries, and he tries to draw back, but Hongbin stops him with a fist in his shirt.

“Will you follow through with your promise?” he asks hoarsely, selfishly, and Sanghyuk thinks, _no_ , but he cannot move. The placidity is gone now, and Hongbin’s gaze burns at him, willing him to _choose_. Hurt him, or become a coward?

“Stop me if you don’t want to,” Sanghyuk whispers, and he is not proud that it comes out sounding like a plea.

Hongbin only stares at him for a long time, his breath loud in the silence, and when he answers, he does not do so with words. Instead, he cups Sanghyuk’s hip in a single warm hand and tilts his face up into the last sliver of space between them.

 

\--

 

The last night before the full moon, Sanghyuk dresses with trembling fingers. He goes out early and speaks to every one of the townspeople assembled in the square, now pockmarked with graves both filled and waiting, and he thanks them for their service, just as Taekwoon did for him when he left camp.

As soon as night falls, everything goes wrong. The barriers break under the weight of the demons pressing against the pikes, and there is only so many bonfires they can set before the entire town goes up in flames. Sanghyuk does his best not to go stiff every time he hears a cry of pain cut off, and he thinks, morbidly, that everyone who lives through this night will undoubtedly perish in the next.

It feels unreal when he is knocked to his knees, and his eyes are still wide as he falls, even in the face of death. He sees the dark maw open up before him ringed in flashing fangs, and only the stench of rotting meat emanates from the soundless chasm within.

The world slow for a second as he registers his imminent end, and then, as soon as cold fear begins to stab him awake, a glint of gold emerges from within the endless darkness and tears the demon to dust. The inhuman shriek of its death rings in Sanghyuk’s ears, drowning out the sound of his own pants, as he looks up the blade and sees Hongbin on the other end.

He registers a familiar pinch in his chest at the sight of Hongbin standing above him, sword grasped tightly in his first as his chest heaves with exertion. This time, though, the sword is pointed away from Sanghyuk, and in the light of the fires, he looks like a wrathful god descending from the heavens.

For a moment, before he throws himself back into the fray, Hongbin looks down at him, and Sanghyuk’s breath freezes in his throat at the utter fear that fills his eyes. The expression haunts him long after Hongbin turns away, a mirage that clings to him in the dark.

They make it to morning. Not all—not even most—but some of them are still standing when the darkness retreats. In the first moment of that night’s victory, the murky sky and ashen earth fade into one another until the entire world is gray, and the few ghostly figures remaining in the sea of dust and sand are gray, too.

Somehow, Sanghyuk stumbles back to his room, where Hongbin is waiting with a bucket of miraculously fresh water from the well. In exhausted silence, they strip to their undergarments and wipe and shake the ash from their skin and hair. Hongbin finishes first, wiping himself off with his shirt before throwing it back over his head. Sanghyuk grips Hongbin’s arm before he can stumble to his own bedroll.

"Please."

Hongbin looks down at his hand, and some unidentifiable emotion pulls his lips thin.

“Please,” Sanghyuk repeats, and his voice sounds like a stranger’s from the ash that clogs his throat.

Hongbin doesn't speak. He never speaks, at these times.

"I'm—" Sanghyuk flounders, "I'm cold."

Hongbin doesn’t move, but he doesn’t stiffen or flinch as Sanghyuk curls into him and buries his face in the warmth of his neck. They don’t speak again—not yet—but when Hongbin finally cups Sanghyuk’s face with a gentle touch, it feels like he holds Sanghyuk’s entire soul in his hands.

 

For once, Sanghyuk wakes up first in the morning. He draws a bucket of fresh water from the well to rinse his face and wipe off his body. There is a long, shallow cut on his thigh, presumably from the night before, and already, black and green rot licks out from the red inner flesh to the surrounding skin. When he finishes, he goes out and finds Donggeun sitting in the town square, watching as a few townspeople sift through the blankets of ash for dry bones.

“Hongbin’s still asleep,” he says when Donggeun raises an eyebrow in question. “How are you feeling?”

“It doesn’t hurt like a wound should,” Donggeun raises his arm and draws back his sleeve, studying the rotten flesh decorating his forearm. “Though it burned like a brand when I got it last night. Strange, isn’t it?”

Sanghyuk nods in understanding.

“I don’t think we will be ready for what happens tonight,” Donggeun says honestly, one commander to another. “Do you?”

Sanghyuk shakes his head. “You should give your goodbyes today. It is never wise to part from your loved ones on the wrong words.”

Donggeun looks at him. “And you?”

“I gave mine before I left the capital,” Sanghyuk says, and it is partly a lie.

He trudges back eventually, after Donggeun leaves. In their room, he spreads out a kerchief and eats hard bread and fruit, watching as Hongbin breathes softly, his breath whistling slightly from between his lips. He looks peaceful, though his eyes are slightly swollen. It’s possibly the first time Sanghyuk has seen him without a frown on his face.

“Good morning,” he says softly when Hongbin finally jerks awake.

He looks up at Sanghyuk, pursing his dry lips. Already, his mouth is twisting into a frown.

“I drew fresh water from the well. It’s outside.”

Hongbin nods in silent thanks.

Sanghyuk chews in silence, listening to the sounds of rough splashing outside. Hongbin returns with water all over his face and dripping through his hair. He scrubs his face dry on a clean cloth.

“Your eyes are red,” Sanghyuk says. He cannot bring himself to speak in their normal harsh tones, but Hongbin freezes anyway. Sanghyuk sighs, motioning towards the food still spread before him. “You should eat.”

Hongbin approaches him slowly, like a skittish animal, and Sanghyuk is careful not to speak again until he is seated with food in his mouth.

“We could die tonight.”

Hongbin finishes chewing and swallows. He puts his food down.

“I know.”

He rises to his feet, and Sanghyuk resists the urge to reach out and grab his hand.

“You don’t wish to even speak about it?” The unspoken part, _About us?_

“What is there to speak about?”

Sanghyuk’s stomach sinks.

“I—” Hongbin purses his lips, staring at Sanghyuk with an unreadable expression. “Is there something you wanted to say?”

Sanghyuk fumbles with the kerchief in his lap and shakes his head. “No, not if you don’t want to talk. I understand. We hate each other. That is how we are.”

“No.”

“No?” Sanghyuk screws up his face, studying his travel-worn boots. “What do you mean, no?”

“I don’t hate you.”

Hongbin’s expression is inscrutable when Sanghyuk looks up, but his hands are clenched into fists. He stands, frozen, for a moment, at war with himself. And then, as Sanghyuk stares, transfixed, his face begins to crumple with an excruciatingly slow loss of control. His lips pull down, folding in as he bites down with his teeth, and then his brow contorts and his eyes flutter closed and, finally, finally, he allows Sanghyuk to see his pain.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats, and his voice is hoarser than before. “I thought I did for much of the time that I have known you, and I have been a fool. You have always been capable and brave, though I was too absorbed with my own shortcomings to acknowledge it. All these years, I could barely stand the thought of myself, so much so that I could not bring myself to accept that you, who had come from the same nameless roots, could be my better in every way.”

Sanghyuk gapes at him as he tries, for a moment, to smile weakly, but his lips tremble too much, and he cannot make them form the proper shape.

“It is late, I know, to admit that I have felt respect and admiration and,” he takes a shallow breath, “and more, for you. After all that I have done, I do not deserve to even hope that you would return my affections, and I didn’t want you to be repulsed or cautious around me because you didn’t reciprocate or—”

Sanghyuk’s breath catches in his throat with the rush of fear, realization, and pathetically fragile hope. He stumbles to his feet, fumbling for Hongbin’s hand, and wraps his fingers tightly around his wrist, prying his fist loose so he can fit their fingers together.

"It was not revenge," he says, squeezing Hongbin's hand hard, then cradling it softly. "It was never revenge—I never _wanted_ revenge. Not for that."

For a long moment, they stand toe to toe, and Sanghyuk can feel the moment Hongbin catches on, as wonder and disbelief war in his eyes.

“Oh,” he breathes, and his fingers tighten in Sanghyuk’s. “I—really?”

Sanghyuk knows this is the moment he should lean forward and fit their lips together, and it will feel new and gentle and tender, and yet—he cannot bring himself to close his eyes.

They have shared many kisses, some harsher than others, and not once have they spoken a word for fear of ruining something fragile and new, even with the threat of war looming close. There is a haunting fear that never leaves his chest, sitting close to his heart every hour of the day, and he hates how it feels to stand before Hongbin and know that this night could be their last. The threat of loss only serves to sharpen the desperation for more time. Newfound affection seeps deep into his flesh, drowning his organs and filling his throat until his very bones feel soft with want.

“I am scared,” Hongbin says for the both of them, his head bowed with the weight of their combined fear, “I am scared to lose you, when we have finally found each other.”

 

In the evening, they dress in silence, helping each other with the leather buckles of their armor. Hongbin pauses before him when they are finished, stopping him with a touch to his shoulder.

Cupping Sanghyuk’s face in both hands once again, he lays a lingering kiss on the corner of his lips. It’s a chaste gesture, and Sanghyuk’s eyes prickle as he turns to capture Hongbin’s lips in a second, deeper kiss before he can turn away.

Hongbin’s eyes are still closed when he draws back, and he takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of him, perfect despite the sickly cast of exhaustion that hangs over the both of them.

“We will go together,” Sanghyuk tells him simply, and Hongbin can barely eke out a shaky smile in return.

Outside, the light fades as the dark night spills across the desert.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://heartsighcd.tumblr.com) (i only post update info sry, but i will field whatever questions or concerns you have abt my fic)
> 
> this is a bit late, but ik there are a lot of non-vixx cameos in this piece, and i am very sorry if i've depicted your faves negatively or killed them off or something. this story is not meant to be a reflection of their real-life characteristics in any way. i just need to advance the plot, so it's very likely they're going to be ooc, and unfortunately, there will be a few who do questionable things.
> 
> aahh i sound like a broken record but thank you so much for being so patient with me!! this fic represents a lot of first-time experiences, and it makes me so happy that you guys are willing to stick it out with me even though i've been struggling lately <3 you're the best :')


	9. The Golden Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry i took forever to write this update and it still ended up being really short ;; i haven't dropped this fic though i promise!!
> 
> warnings: mentions of death/self-sacrifice again

Eunkwang arrives at midday three days before the full moon. He brings with him the royal army in a flood of jingling bits, clanking armor, and stamping hooves and boots. He looks tired—they all do—but his eyes are bright when he pulls his helmet off his sweaty brow and reaches up to embrace Taekwoon with strong arms.

All afternoon, the camp is abuzz with the new arrivals as they sprawl out to cover nearly four times the land they had before, covering the gray mix of sand and ash in tents and equipment that crawls and bleeds through the landscape.

Eunkwang sets up his tent near the center of camp for ease of access, but he makes himself at home on Taekwoon’s cushions, studying the maps and moon charts littering Taekwoon’s unfolded table as he sips water from his hip flask.

“You know we only have three days, then,” he says, voice still rough from the dusty trip. Taekwoon nods, and Eunkwang looks almost relieved. “I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to you.”

“How was the palace when you left?” Taekwoon asks, fingers worrying the cuff of his sleeve. Eunkwang’s eyes are drawn to the movement, but he only raises an eyebrow.

“The defenses were holding up well,” he says. “I suppose the first dragon kings knew, when they build the palace, that this would happen someday. There is far too much gold inlay on those walls to be a mere coincidence.”

“And Hakyeon?”

Eunkwang blinks. “I thought you would want to skirt that topic.”

“You could say I have had a change of heart,” Taekwoon says, rolling the cuff up, and Eunkwang’s eyes widen at the sight of his bare wrist.

“Is that so,” he says slowly. “And what prompted this change of heart?”

“Does it matter?” Taekwoon shrugs. “I am fine, Eunkwang. Just tell me how he is.”

A series of emotions flashes across Eunkwang’s face, too quickly for Taekwoon to discern. “He is safe in the palace. Where is the ribbon, Taekwoon? Tell me you did not throw it away.”

“I gave it to Wonsik,” Taekwoon says quietly, “to return to Hakyeon. I wrote him a letter.”

“A letter,” Eunkwang repeats, looking doubtful.

Taekwoon shrugs. “It is the only means of communication I have with him. It was enough.”

Eunkwang sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. “So you’ve given up?”

“I don’t know,” Taekwoon says honestly. “In a few weeks’ time, when everything is over—perhaps I will know then.”

“The world could very well be over by then.”

Taekwoon can’t bring himself to reply, so he rolls down his sleeve instead.

“You won’t always get another chance to see him again,” Eunkwang says softly, and Taekwoon knows who he is thinking of.

It happened once, to his knowledge—just once, because there were expectations of a prince, especially a _crown_ prince, and destiny could be cruel at times. Hakyeon had been tugging him down the hall by the wrist, stifling mouthfuls of laughter with his palm. Taekwoon has long forgotten what they had been discussing, but he remembers the sight even now.

They had been sitting in the tiny alcove above the courtyards, knees bumping to fit side by side. They were silent, but Minhyuk stroked his thumb across the high plane of Eunkwang’s cheekbone, tracing the same path over and over and over. Hakyeon had pulled him away before he could properly comprehend why Eunkwang’s lips were swollen red, but Taekwoon was never stupid.

Seven days before the princes turned eighteen, Eunkwang packed his shining new shield, the paint barely dried over its unscratched surface, and marched off to his assignment on the southern coast. He sent Taekwoon letters throughout those years, but in the end, he never came back in time to see the crown prince laid into the cold, cold earth.

“I know,” says Taekwoon, and Eunkwang gives him a bitter smile.

“Don’t let yourself die with regrets, Taekwoon. Not when there could be only so much time for us all.”

 

That night, the companies of soldiers spread far enough that Taekwoon can barely see the farthest lanterns twinkling in the distance. For the first time, it feels like they will be able to hold off most of the demons that emerge from the forest.

Eunkwang’s hand is warm and strong against the back of Taekwoon’s back as the sun dips under the horizon. Even as he draws his sword and faces the soundless monsters, the knowledge that Eunkwang is at his side, helping him direct the flow of the battle, is immensely comforting. He is undoubtedly more used to commanding such a large number of soldiers compared to Taekwoon, even if he is equally inexperienced in war.

The sky is already a watery gray when the demons finally disintegrate into dust and they return to camp. Taekwoon receives reports on the casualties from the senior officers, and the sun is already climbing in the sky when he finally washes off the ash and falls onto his bedroll.

The dream starts out as it always does, with the tree and the moon and the pond and the whispers. Taekwoon waits in resigned silence until the tree falls away and he is lying on his back on the water, watching as the flowers pile higher and higher and higher, until the sky and the moon are obscured by monstrous petals that press down on his chest.

He closes his eyes, ignoring the incessant voice that prods the edges of his consciousness, and waits for morning to save him.

 

\--

 

The final day before the full moon is fraught with tension. All day, the Fire burns high like a column that reaches up into the sky, past even the clouds, a constant reminder of the approaching night.

Taekwoon does his best to walk through camp and greet as many soldiers as he can, though he struggles with the names of the newcomers who came with Eunkwang. He makes sure to spend a sizeable amount of time in the sickbay towards the afternoon before returning to his tent.

At sunset, the camp is brighter than Taekwoon has ever seen before, lit with enough bonfires and torches and lanterns to set the entire forest ablaze. With this many more soldiers, they can afford to split into five companies and spread out along the tree-line, forming walls of glittering armor haphazardly painted in gold.

The desert falls quiet as the sun begins to dip under the horizon, until only the wind and his own heartbeat ring in Taekwoon’s ears. The temperature hasn’t quite dropped off yet, and the leather hilt and metal pommel of his sword are warm against his clammy hands.

They wait in silence, and it’s not until the moon is nearly at its horizon that they see a hint of movement in the shadows surrounding the trees. No one shouts, but out of the corner of his eye, Taekwoon sees the signal pass from lantern to lantern in a wave of blinking lights.

“Something’s wrong,” Eunkwang murmurs from his side as dark shapes start to spill out from the forest, moving towards the lines of soldiers.

They move languidly, with oil-like smoothness, showing no hesitation as they approach the bonfires and torches in one giant mass. Around him, Taekwoon can hear sharp intakes of breath as the realization comes that they aren’t stopping.

“Stand your ground!” Eunkwang shouts, and at the sound of his voice, everyone freezes where they stand.

“What are you doing?” Taekwoon hisses, but Eunkwang shakes his head.

“Look at them. They’re not reacting to the same cues as before. It doesn’t matter.”

Taekwoon feels him tense as the dark wave continues to advance, neither slowing nor speeding up as it nears them. The air fills with the slither of metal on metal as swords come out of their sheaths and shields are raised.

And then, just a few paces shy of the army, the wave stops.

Eunkwang’s arm shoots out to grasp Taekwoon’s wrist in a tight hold before he can move.

He can feel the silence like a stifling second skin as they all hold their breaths, waiting for something to happen. The moon crawls excruciatingly higher, and still, the demons stand scattered like so many statues alone the dunes of sand.

Finally, when Taekwoon can hold still no longer, he breaks out of Eunkwang’s grip.

“Taekwoon!” Eunkwang shouts, but he’s already elbowing his way to the front of the line, nothing but his sword in his hand.

As he approaches the line of demons, the metal of the hilt almost seems to grow warmer in his grip, glowing golden bright with the light of the moon. He picks the nearest one and slices it in half with a mighty two-handed swing.

Rather than disintegrating into dust, the demon lets out a sound almost like a sigh and dissolves into a pool of darkness at his feet. The pool swirls around his legs in a manner much like dispersing smoke, spreading thin and curling around the other demons. Taekwoon watches as, one by one, the others begin to melt, too, as the smoke touches them. The effect is like a ripple spreading in water in perfect rings with Taekwoon standing at the very center, where the disturbance enters.

He turns back to see varying degrees of shock, fear, and disbelief reflected in the firelight. Eunkwang stares back at him from the front of the line, where he had chased him out in an unsuccessful attempt to hold him back.

Taekwoon wordlessly turns back to look at the demons, now a single dark carpet of smoke lazily crawling through the sandy dunes that cover the landscape, spilling like an endless pool from the dark depths of the forest.

In his mind, a single line of Hakyeon’s letter echoes over and over and over again.

_The endless night._

 

The black smoke spreads thin across the landscape like a dark carpet until the line between sky and sand blurs into nothingness. Its likeness to water gives the illusion of heavier steps as the order to retreat passes along from squad to squad and they begin to make their way back to camp.

Most of the soldiers are quick to escape to the safety of their tents, but Taekwoon lingers outside, shrugging off Eunkwang’s inquiring look as he passes by. He has no wish to sleep and dream, nor does he feel the urge to seek the company of the first shift of lookouts for the night.

Instead, he walks back out towards the Fire, easily avoiding the eyes of the guards on the edge of camp. After years of living in the forest, he has perfected the art of moving quietly, even in full armor. He has no need for a lantern or torch with his sword strapped to his side, and his gold-coated armor is easily covered with a cloak thrown over his shoulders.

The smoke reaches up to his shins as he nears the forest. Most of it parts around the flaking gold poured haphazardly over his greaves, but a few wisps stick to the heavy fabric of his cloak and the sections of his trousers not covered by his armor. He rests his hand on the hilt of his sword, but doesn’t pull it out. Even through the scabbard, he can feel that it growing unnaturally hot against his thigh.

Standing with his back to camp and facing the forest, Taekwoon is hit with the distinct sensation that he is standing on the edge of a sea of nothingness. It is impossible to distinguish where the horizon cuts sand from sky, with only the moon and the Fire breaking the monotonous darkness in the distance.

Impulsively, he pulls off a gauntlet and reaches down with his bare hand to scoop at the smoke, marveling as it runs off his hands in rivulets, stark against his pale palm. The substance is neither hot nor cold against his skin. Rather, it numbs where it comes in contact with his hand and feet, so much so that Taekwoon can barely tell that he is touching anything at all.

He shivers at the sensation that lingers, even when he wipes his hand on the inside of his cloak. It’s not until he inches his sword out of the scabbard and lays his palm against the blade that the numbness retreats, giving way to the almost uncomfortable heat emanating from the gold. The bright moonlight collects on the sword-edge, so much so that it nearly glows. He quickly shoves it back into the scabbard and under his cloak to avoid catching unwanted eyes.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he hears movement and the faint sound of voices behind him, signaling the change of shifts in the guard. He waits a few more minutes as the lookouts settle into their patrol routes and the soldiers on the previous shift scurry back into their tents. Unseen and unheard, he slips back into his tent to burn away the rest of the darkness with a candle until morning.

 

\--

 

Taekwoon feigns obliviousness, but he can feel the apprehension in the air as soon as he steps outside the next day. The air is hot from makeshift forges built to melt what remaining gold is left in the supply wagons. In the early dawn, the sun has already burnt the darkness into blankets of gray ash that cover the sand, much like how it had burned away the demons before.

Taekwoon stops in front of Eunkwang’s tent, knocking on the pole and waiting for a shout from inside before opening the flap.

Eunkwang is alone inside, fiddling with his arm guards. He sets them down and lifts an eyebrow when he sees the naked sword in Taekwoon’s hand.

“Last night.”

“I was there too,” Eunkwang sighs, gesturing towards the moon charts laid out across the floor of the tent. “The air outside is thick enough to slice with a knife. Is there a reason you’re brandishing a sword around in nothing but a shirt and trousers?”

Taekwoon throws the sword down, and Eunkwang jumps when it clatters.

“There’s something wrong,” he mutters, kicking at it with his boot. “It’s been warm since last night.”

“Gods know there’s something wrong with it if you treat it like that,” Eunkwang says, picking the sword up and running his thumb along the spine of the blade. After a moment, he frowns, repeating the action.

“It’s not like it’ll dull,” Taekwoon snorts. “You feel it?”

“It _is_ unnaturally hot,” Eunkwang admits. “Did Ryeowook ever mention something like this happening?”

Taekwoon nods. “The legends always say that the sword grows hot when it comes into contact with demon flesh, but this entire time, it’s been cold to the touch. Until last night.”

Eunkwang turns the sword over thoughtfully. Unlike Taekwoon, he handles the thing with gentle hands, tracing his fingers over the shape of the guard. “You think it means something?”

“It certainly cannot mean nothing,” Taekwoon shrugs. “This isn’t over. Something bad is bound to happen.”

Eunkwang sets the sword on the ground. “Tonight?”

“I have no idea. We should be on our guards.” He settles down on the floor of the tent and watches for a moment as Eunkwang returns to looking for the rest of his armor, scattered in parts around the tent. “Have you had any dreams since coming here?”

“Dreams?” Eunkwang hums distractedly, a gauntlet in one hand as he searches for the other. “What kinds of dreams?”

“Any dreams.”

“I suppose I’ve had a few dreams since we left,” Eunkwang says.

Taekwoon leans forward with interest. “What have they been about?”

Eunkwang frowns as he thinks. “The demons, once. They’re terrifying, to say the least. Otherwise, my childhood? One took place on that beach my father used to take us to in the summer. I can’t remember the rest.”

“I see.” Taekwoon leans back again.

Eunkwang swipes at the gauntlets, polishing them with the hem of his shirt. “Have you been having dreams?”

“Yes. The same dream every night. I had the same one for years after the rebellion ended.”

Eunkwang stops polishing, fixing Taekwoon with a worried expression. “Nightmares?”

Taekwoon nods. “I thought they had gone away.”

Eunkwang sets down his gauntlets and sits across from Taekwoon. “How long have you been having them?”

“Since I returned to the palace.”

Eunkwang frowns. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Taekwoon looks away. “I wasn’t too worried. I thought it was just a result of sleeping in the palace again after so long. And there was a dragon that would appear every night to save me.”

“But?”

“Ever since we left the palace, it hasn’t come. I can’t move or speak in the dream, and nothing ever comes to save me. It feels like I’m suffocating for hours until I wake up.”

Eunkwang mulls over this information. “You think this has something to do with the Fire?”

“Perhaps,” Taekwoon sighs. “I don’t know. The dragon seems like it would be an omen, don’t you think? But then again, why would it choose me of all people to visit? I am a bastard, with no royal blood in my veins.”

“You are the champion,” Eunkwang points out.

“I was already in exile at the time the dreams began.”

“You think it could be because of the sword?”

“I did not take it with me.”

Eunkwang sinks his teeth into his lower lip, thinking. “Did the dream change in any way last night?” Taekwoon hesitates, and Eunkwang gives him a disappointed look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t slept.”

“It’s not like sleep affords me much rest nowadays,” Taekwoon mutters, but Eunkwang slaps his arm.

“You have to sleep to stay alert,” he admonishes, and Taekwoon shakes his head in defeat.

“I will sleep if nothing happens tonight.”

“Fine,” Eunkwang agrees, “Once the night is over, you will sleep.”

 

That evening, they spread out over the dunes again, sand and dust running into their shoes. The sun dips under the horizon, washing the sky in pinks and purples and grays, and they wait in tense silence until the moon begins its ascent.

This time, the demons come out in a slow crawl, drifting across the landscape like dark clouds. They creep farther this time, slipping through the lines of soldiers, and Eunkwang and Taekwoon have to shout multiple times to hold the ranks.

“We’re being separated,” Changsub says anxiously. “What if they attack?”

When the moon finally peaks in the sky, even the wind seems to die down in nervous anticipation. For a moment, everything hangs so still, Taekwoon would think that time had stopped if not for the thump of his own heart against his ribs.

And then, with a collective sigh, the demons begin to disintegrate.

Taekwoon looks at Eunkwang, who stares back, his face tight and pale.

“We should go back. There is no sense in all of us staying up for the entire night,” Taekwoon finally says when the demons are no more than a sea of black smoke licking at their feet, spread out across the sandy plains.

“We will discuss this in the morning,” Eunkwang nods as Changsub begins to relay the signal by lantern to the other companies. “But first, you will sleep.”

 

\--

 

The dream begins as soon as he lays down on his bedroll.

He sits in the tree overlooking the gardens, legs dangling beneath him. The branch is warm and rough beneath his fingers, startlingly real. He can make out the skitter of moonlight along every crest and valley of every ripple in the water below him. The moon itself is just a sliver shy of full, a perfect reflection of the real one that hung over the desert earlier that night.

For the second time that night, Taekwoon waits. There is a different sort of dread that collects in his chest now compared to before. He no longer has the warmth of the fires at his back, the clink of Eunkwang’s armor as he shifts quietly at Taekwoon’s side. Even the whispers that normally haunt him in his sleep are gone. With nothing to distract him from the solitude, time stretches thin and he can do nothing but look down at the water in silent apprehension.

As he watches, bright flowers bloom in the water below, their tender petals shining silver along the edges. They dip and bob on the surface of the pond, growing to nearly monstrous sizes and brushing against his hanging feet almost mockingly.

 _Anytime_ , he thinks as the moon grows in the sky, fuller and fuller and blindingly silver. Anytime, and he will find himself on the surface of the water, catching one last glimpse of the sky, and then the petal will close over him and press down, down, down.

He waits the whole night, and nothing happens.

 

In the morning, Taekwoon wakes to a quiet series of knocks in a distinctive pattern. He waits in the dark for the sequence to repeat itself, just to make sure, before he rises and opens the flap.

“Champion,” the messenger is dressed in medic’s robes, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. “I do not wish to draw attention this early in the morning, but there is something you must see.”

Taekwoon takes in her nervous stance, the way she chews his lip. “And why am I receiving this message from you, doctor?”

The medic takes a deep breath. “Captain Seo asked that you meet him in the sickbay once you are up and dressed. I am afraid we have a…strange diagnosis, if you will. You should hurry.”

Eunkwang is standing over a cot when Taekwoon arrives, worrying his lip with his teeth. He looks up and catches Taekwoon’s eye, beckoning him closer with a wave.

“You’re awake,” he mutters as Taekwoon stands beside him.

“You were the one who told me to sleep,” Taekwoon points out.

“So you dreamed?”

“I dreamed.” Taekwoon eyes the medics and patients around them. “Nothing happened.”

Eunkwang frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if it even means anything,” Taekwoon sighs. “It isn’t important right now.”

“Very well,” Eunkwang nods. He points. “We have other pressing matters. Look at him.”

The man lying on the cot would look peacefully asleep if not for the rot covering his throat and left cheek, crawling over his temple and into his hairline. His expression is serene, and his chest rises and falls in slow, shallow breaths.

“He won’t wake up,” Eunkwang says, and, to demonstrate, one of the physicians shakes his shoulder with quite a bit of force.

“Is it alright to be so rough with a patient?” Taekwoon raises an eyebrow.

The physician sighs, “We’ve checked all his vital signs. He is, for all intents and purposes, asleep. Otherwise, he is perfectly healthy. Almost unnaturally so, given that he was stabbed through the thigh five nights ago.”

Taekwoon turns to Eunkwang. “How long have you been here?”

“An hour.”

Taekwoon nods and looks around the tent. This early in the morning, almost all the injured soldiers are still asleep. “How many will not wake up?”

“About a quarter, as far as we can tell,” the physician says. “Right before it happens, the corrosion begins to spread unusually fast.” He draws back the man’s collar, baring more of the irregular bruising. “There’s no pattern as to who falls asleep first. This man was injured five nights ago, but there is one over there who sustained their first major wound the night before the full moon.”

“‘Dreaming by day,’” Eunkwang mutters, low enough that only Taekwoon can hear. Taekwoon recognizes the words from Hakyeon’s letter.

“I think,” he says slowly, “This is a conversation we should continue outside of the sickbay, Captain.”

The medics spare them each a bow on their way out, still bent over the sleeping man.

 

“Deserters,” Eunkwang summarizes eloquently the moment he steps foot into Taekwoon’s tent.

“Word will be out by the time the sun is up,” Taekwoon nods. “It’s concerning that we could fall asleep at any given time. There will be mass panic. And deserters.”

“Given the state of the demons at the moment, we will probably have a few days before we have to fight again,” Eunkwang rubs his face tiredly. “With the end of the world approaching, there are no more consequences to just leaving. They will all want to say goodbye to their loved ones again.” He gives Taekwoon a loaded look. “After all, who wouldn’t want a second chance to say goodbye?”

Taekwoon looks away.

Eunkwang sifts aimlessly through the papers on Taekwoon’s folding table. “Do you think we will all die when the book ends?”

“How would you expect me to know?” Taekwoon snorts.

Eunkwang leans on his forearms, staring down at the table. He looks apprehensive, tiny wrinkles forming at the edges of his frown. “I think you should go back.” He holds up a hand before Taekwoon can protest. “I know this sounds bad of me to say in my position, but I can handle the army for a few days. You need to go back to Hakyeon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know that I have a role in this war to fulfill.”

“I also know that you’ll regret not going back to see him one last time.”

“I will go back when this battle ends.”

Eunkwang closes his eyes. “This army is falling apart, Taekwoon. This _kingdom_ is falling apart. There is nothing you can do to save it.”

“So you’re giving up?” Taekwoon says incredulously. “We’ll just sit here until we fall into eternal sleep or die?”

“ _No._ I only said that there is nothing that _you_ can do to save it. You were meant to be a symbol of Hakyeon’s power, but now that no one wants to contest that, there is nothing keeping you from seeing Hakyeon one last time before the new moon.”

“Then I would be no better than any other deserter.”

“You will easily make it to the capital and back with more than enough time to spare if you ride quickly. There will be hardly anyone on the road right now, and you can change horses on your way.”

“I am his champion first and foremost. Fighting here—protecting his kingdom—it is the only thing I can do for him now.”

Eunkwang opens his eyes at this. The way he looks at Taekwoon is too close to pitying for comfort. “You will regret it if you never see him again.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Taekwoon hates how his voice strains. “I will see him, though. I promised.”

Eunkwang takes in a sharp breath. After a moment of silence, he says, “Tell me that was not what you wrote in that letter.”

Taekwoon shakes his head, but Eunkwang has known him long enough to see through the lie.

“Taekwoon,” Eunkwang says firmly.

“He isn’t Minhyuk,” Taekwoon says.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I know what you meant,” Eunkwang’s voice grows hard. “I _know_ , and that’s not why I’m asking this of you. Trust me when I say I thought this offer through many times before this moment.”

Taekwoon looks at him, at the way his brows are pulled together and his breathing is unnaturally hard.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Eunkwang holds his gaze. “There are many things I haven’t told you. Hakyeon is my king, and I take his word seriously.”

Taekwoon takes a deep breath. “Then promise me this isn’t about Minhyuk. Tell me you aren’t just thinking of Minhyuk when you tell me that he will want to see me one last time, because we both know that Hakyeon isn’t him.”

Eunkwang grasps Taekwoon by both shoulders and says steadily, “Hakyeon is not Minhyuk. He will never be Minhyuk. Minhyuk was never a king to me.”

“I know what he was to you,” Taekwoon blurts.

“Listen to me, Taekwoon,” Eunkwang’s expression doesn’t waver. “Minhyuk never became a king. I know what I mean when I say that I only serve Hakyeon. He will never hold the same existence to me as Minhyuk. You understand, now?”

After a moment of silence Taekwoon nods. Eunkwang sighs and removes his hands from his shoulders, stepping back.

“You are sure you will be fine without me?”

“I will manage,” Eunkwang’s lips quirk. “I have managed Hakyeon’s guard for four years. I can handle this for a few more days.”

“And the deserters?”

“The guard is disciplined enough to stay,” Eunkwang says. “If not for the kingdom, they will stay for Hakyeon and for me. As for the rest, I will do my best to keep them in line.”

“There isn’t much you can do in comparison to the end of the world.”

“Then we will face the demons with what people we have,” Eunkwang says. He looks at Taekwoon again. “So you will consider?”

Taekwoon nods. “I will consider.”

 

At sunset, they build roaring bonfires across the desert to sit around for the first time in many nights. Aside from a small rotating guard assigned to keep watch over the forest, almost the entire camp is seated at one fire or another, making small talk and telling stories. It goes unspoken, but no one wants to stay outside the safety of the firelight, where the black smoke pours like water across the landscape as far as the eye can see.

Taekwoon takes his time visiting each bonfire before everyone retires to bed, speaking to the soldiers. He wears no armor, but his sword is heavy at his side, growing warmer as the night wears on. When he reaches Joohyun’s squad, they request a story again. He protests at first, but he knows all too well the need for a distraction.

“Any requests?” he sighs as a murmur goes around the fire.

“An adventure.”

“A love story!”

“A folktale!” someone shouts from the back.

In the end, he tells an old story, one that he has not heard in so long, he can barely remember how it goes. His voice is neither too loud nor too quiet as he recounts the tale of a seamstress who seeks out the god of the forest to heal her sick lover. In return for the cure, the god gives her a spool of golden thread and orders her to fashion him a robe that flow like water. For years, she travels the land in search of a loom delicate enough to weave gold, but she is met with no success. Finally, she gives up and returns to the forest, hoping to beg the god for a different task. As she sits by the river to weep, her knapsack is knocked into the water, and the golden thread spills out into the current. When she pulls it out, she finds that the river has woven it into cloth as smooth and bright as sunlight.

“Did her lover live in the end?” Joohyun asks when Taekwoon falls silent, and it becomes clear he does not plan on continuing.

“I don’t remember,” Taekwoon admits. “I think Wonsik forgot the ending when he told me this story years ago. I would like to think she made the robe in time to save her, though.”

When he finally moves to leave, he is sent off with shouts of thanks and a smattering of applause. At every subsequent fire, he tells a different story. He finds, as the night progresses, that he can never remember how any of them end.

 

\--

 

Taekwoon sits in the tree and gazes up at the moon. It’s almost peaceful, sitting amongst solid branches and swinging his feet in the night breeze. The lotuses float on the water below, and he would find their thick, perfect petals beautiful if not for the memories of spending night after night buried under their suffocating weight.

A particularly large disturbance in the water draws his attention back down from the sky. The pond is dark at night, but Taekwoon can clearly see the tiny figure standing below, framed in giant lotus flowers.

Thick locks of hair the color of dawn tumble down to her waist, and she looks up at him with eyes that burn bright in the dark night. The inky water ripples around her bare feet as she steps forward until she is standing almost completely under the tree.

_You were never meant for greatness._

She doesn’t open her mouth, but the words spring to Taekwoon’s mind in a manner reminiscent of the whispers that filled his dreams before. Slowly, she lifts her arm and points up at him.

He looks down at the sensation of a familiar weight at his hip. The golden sword burns a brand against the side of his thigh, hotter than he has ever felt before. Despite the dark sky, it glows bright enough to pierce his eyes.

When he looks up again, the figure is gone.

 

The blankets of dust outside are thicker than ever when he wakes up. Throughout the day, only the top layer burns away under the sun. Rather than walking, Taekwoon finds himself wading through the gray ash. The effect of feeling his feet sink into soft sand without actually seeing any of the sand with his own eyes is disconcerting.

There are fewer deserters than he and Eunkwang had predicted, and the reason becomes apparent as he makes his daily journey to the wagons to take stock of their supplies and sees even fewer people than usual wandering outside. Even the act of walking across camp is much slower going given the layer of ash covering the ground, so much so that even the horses have trouble moving easily when they are taken out for exercise.

Theoretically, moving would be easiest at night, when the ash turned to black smoke that parted easily for one’s horse. Riding at night is much easier in the south given the well-paved roads, but the thought of traveling alone through the demon smoke is unnerving for even the bravest souls.

In the afternoon, Taekwoon receives another physician while taking stock of their remaining supplies, this one panting from clearly having run across camp.

“A message from your apprentice,” he barely manages to say, “in the sickbay.”

To Taekwoon’s surprise, there is not only a message from Wonsik, but Wonsik himself waiting in the sickbay. He has his arm wrapped around the man sitting next to him as he murmurs reassurances in low tones, so engrossed that he doesn’t see Taekwoon at first.

“Master!” Wonsik shoots to his feet, the shout tapering to a whisper as he remembers the injured lying all around them. The second man sits up, and Taekwoon is surprised to see that it is Hongbin, looking dull and much more subdued than usual.

The cot at their feet catches Taekwoon’s attention before he can embrace his apprentice. Two medics are kneeling on either side, but when they sit up, he recognizes the figure lying prostrate between them.

Sanghyuk’s eyes are closed, his expression serene. His shirt is wrinkled and covered in dirt, and under his skewed collar, Taekwoon can see tender green and purple peeking through like rotting bruises against his skin.

“He won’t wake up,” Hongbin says from behind them, his voice flat. “We were on our way back to give a report after the full moon. He fell asleep on our second night out and now he won’t wake up.”

 

“It’s been happening to all the wounded,” Wonsik confirms in the privacy of Taekwoon’s tent, where only he and Eunkwang can hear. Hongbin had elected to stay back and watch over Sanghyuk while Wonsik made the report. “I spoke with Head Physician Ahn and it seems the symptoms I’ve been seeing elsewhere have been occurring here too.”

“This is progressing much faster than I thought it would,” Eunkwang says, sitting down heavily on the only stool in the tent.

“Has it spread to the north yet?”

Wonsik shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ve been in the south this entire time. I haven’t even been back to the capital yet.”

Eunkwang looks up at that. “Are you planning on going back?”

“Yes,” Wonsik says uncertainly, glancing at Taekwoon.

“He knows about the letter,” Taekwoon says.

“I haven’t given it to His Majesty yet.” Wonsik reaches under his breastplate, producing the tiny folded paper from his shirt pocket.

Eunkwang looks at the paper, then back at Taekwoon. “Tell me that’s not all you wrote.”

“I didn’t need to write more.”

“You—,” Eunkwang jumps to his feet, pacing back and forth. “Do you not understand the gravity of the situation? These could be your last words to him, and _this_ is all you write? Do you really not think you could die before you see him again? Do you really not think _he_ —”

“Captain,” Wonsik says quietly, but firmly, and Eunkwang stops with one last angry shake of his head.

Taekwoon narrows his eyes, looking between the two of them. “You’re not telling me something.”

Eunkwang inhales deeply, and Wonsik’s gaze drops to his feet. “Taekwoon, you have to go back.”

Taekwoon closes his eyes. “No.”

When he opens his eyes again, Eunkwang looks angrier than Taekwoon has ever seen him.

“I’m telling you right now that you will regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t go back to him one last time.”

“You don’t understand. He doesn’t need me as a friend or a companion or—or whatever else. He needs me as a general, as a champion, and this is all that I can do for him right now. I promised him I would serve him for the rest of our lives, and I will go back to him. I will not die before then.”

“We will all live,” Eunkwang says, his voice hard. “You will live, I will live, _everyone_ will live. It doesn’t matter, don’t you see? Whether or not you stay or not, there is only one thing that will save us, and it is out of all of our hands, so for once in your life, don’t think about duty and _go_.”

Taekwoon groans, rubbing his thumbs against his temples. He winces as a dull pain begins to form behind his eyes and a faint ringing echoes in his ears.

Eunkwang pauses in his pacing and frowns. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a headache,” he sighs, shaking his head a little. The ringing grows louder.

“Have you not been sleeping?”

“I sleep every day, Eunkwang,” he says, irritated. “I’ve been dreaming for hours every night.”

“You’re still dreaming?” Wonsik says, sounding alarmed.

“He’s been dreaming every night,” Eunkwang tells him. “You know about them?”

Their voices grow faint as Taekwoon shakes his head, wincing at the dizziness that accompanies the motion. Wonsik looks pale as he listens to Eunkwang, his expression distinctly panicked, and Taekwoon wants to ask him what the matter is, but he can barely hear what Eunkwang is saying.

All at once, the ringing dies away for the briefest moment, and Taekwoon hears a voice that itches at the edges of his memory, startlingly clear.

 _You were never meant to shoulder great burdens_.

Taekwoon jerks his head up, wincing at the sudden movement. “Did you hear that?”

Eunkwang frowns. “Hear what?”

Wonsik stares at him with wide, horrified eyes. “Master, you—”

Taekwoon opens his mouth to speak again, but his voice is stuck in his throat, and the ringing is heightening in pitch. He can barely feel the sensation of Eunkwang’s hand landing on his shoulder and shaking him frantically. Both Eunkwang and Wonsik’s eyes are trained on his arm, and Taekwoon’s gaze finally travels down to where they’re looking.

 _Oh_ , he thinks stupidly, staring down at the corrosion rapidly crawling down his wrist. It’s a dark and sickly green, stark against his pale palm. He feels numb.

His eyes catch on the crumpled note in Wonsik’s hand, folded around a ribbon and worn thin from the inside of Wonsik’s pocket, and a wave of nausea builds in his stomach.

 _Don’t give it to him_ , he wants to say, but the words clog in his throat. _It’ll break his heart._

He looks up, staring a horrified Eunkwang in the eye. The last thing he registers is the ground rushing up to meet him, and then he plunges into a deep, inky darkness.

 

\--

 

_I am entrusting this with you for safekeeping. And for luck. I will return for it when all is over._

_Forever yours,_

_Taekwoon_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://heartsighcd.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> i'm really sorry this was frankly a horrible note to end on after leaving you all hanging for so long ;; i'm actually really excited for the next chapter though. you can probably guess whose mirror it is, so i won't say too much but there will be a lot of things happening so hang in there a bit longer!! i love you all thanks for staying with me despite my long absences ;;

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](heartsighcd.tumblr.com)


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